Criminal
by TerraBeth
Summary: Post "Into the Woods." Blair and Chuck are back together again, and they've been going strong for about six weeks now. But will their relationship be able to withstand the biggest challenge that they've faced yet? C/B/OC. D/S as a subplot. Rated T/M.
1. A Bad, Bad Girl

**A/N: This story takes place post "Into the Woods," my previous post 4x17 multi-chapter fic. But you don't have to go and read all sixteen chapters of _that_ if you don't want to (though, of course, I recommend that you do). All you need to know is that Blair and Chuck decided to give it another go 'round, and they've been going strong for about six weeks now. And Blair and Dan are friends. I think that's all you need to know at this point, but I'll update if I think any further background information might be necessary. Enjoy.**

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><p>Neither of them would have ever thought it possible. But Dan Humphrey and Blair Waldorf had a date.<p>

A standing date, that is.

Every Friday, at 4:30PM, they met up at a dive bar off Union Square, just before the rush at Happy Hour.

They had their own table, which the bartender reserved for them. It was a wooden booth with high backed seats that gave them a little privacy, and they'd sit together there for a couple of hours over drinks, and go over the events of the past seven days.

They called it "Friday Bitch Fest," because their conversations tended to spotlight the most frustrating, troubling or just plain pesky happenings of the week.

The therapeutic effects of Friday Bitch Fest had been surprising to both. They found that they simply felt better having hashed out their problems with each another. _Refreshed_, even. Ready to leave behind the annoyances of the Monday-to-Friday grind, and to enjoy the relaxations proffered by the weekend.

Somehow, to their mutual surprise, through all the bitching, Guinness, dirty martinis, and the jokes at each other's expense, they had settled into what could be loosely termed a friendship.

But only loosely.

It was around 4:40PM on a Friday during the first week of May, and Dan was sitting in their usual booth, leafing through a dog-eared copy of _Crime and Punishment, _when he saw Blair walk into the bar on high heels. She was wearing a long summer sun-dress, a wide-brimmed straw hat and crocheted lace gloves.

She paused to say something to the bartender (which was odd, he thought. The bartender knew their orders by now) and made her way to their booth, sliding in across from him.

"Hi, Humphrey," she said in an exhausted voice.

"Thank God you're finally here," Dan said. "You have to look at this ridiculously opaque text that Serena sent me in the middle of the night…"

He tried to slide his phone across the table to her, but Blair made a horizontal motion with one hand.

"I call precedence," she said, and began to pull off her gloves finger-by-finger.

Calling "precedence" meant that one had had a tremendously difficult week and needed to vent ASAP. But, as might be expected, Blair Waldorf had a tendency to call precedence far more often than Dan thought necessary.

"No. _No_," Dan interrupted. "See—the thing is—you need to be re-educated in what that term means. In accordance with the terms of the Friday Bitch Fest contract, precedence is only to be invoked in extraordinary circumstances."

"I'm fully aware of the terms of the contract," Blair said with a roll of her eyes. "I _wrote_ the flipping contract."

"Well, you seem to have largely forgotten it," Dan said, exasperated. "Because two weeks ago you called precedence when the heel broke on your _shoe_."

"It wasn't just a _shoe_, Humphrey," Blair said. "It was a _Louboutin_. And I'll have you know that that heel breaking was the biggest disaster of my life thus far."

"Now—see, just the fact that you would venture to say that to me that _proves_ that you shouldn't be calling _precedence_," Dan dictated. "So now _I'm_ calling precedence, because this text is just, like, _crazy_. You really have to see it to believe—"

"_Dan_," Blair interjected in a desperate voice, and, to his surprise, he saw that her eyes were brimming with tears. "I'm serious."

Dan exhaled slowly, looking at her face. God, why did she always have to do that teary-eyed routine? It got him every single time.

"_Okay_, okay," he grudged. "I'll give you precedence. But it had better be good this time."

He sulkily waited for her to speak, but she remained silent for a few moments.

"Well?" he asked, getting curious in spite of himself. "What is it?"

"It's—" Blair swallowed. "It's me and Chuck. We're in trouble."

"Trouble? Wh—what kind of trouble? IRS trouble?" Dan's brows furrowed in thought. "_Mafia_ trouble?" he added, with a look of horror.

"_Relationship_ trouble," Blair said. "And it's…bad. It's really, really bad."

Dan sighed. "Okay. Fine. But if you're going to talk about Chuck you have to recite the oath."

"Seriously?" Blair moaned. "I have to do it nearly every week. Can't we just assume by now that its terms generally apply?"

Dan just looked at her blankly and waited.

"'I hereby solemnly swear that I will not share any information pertaining to the sexual preferences, practices and/or anatomy of Chuck Bass,'" Blair mechanically recited.

"Thank you," he replied perfunctorily. "Proceed."

Blair was silent for several seconds. She opened her mouth a couple of times, but no words came out. Then, to Dan's surprise, the bartender brought her not only her customary dirty martini but also a shot of vodka ("Thanks, Moe," she muttered), which she immediately threw down her throat. Then she set down the shot glass on the table, her eyes beginning to water.

"Uh, _Blair_—" Dan's voice was guarded. "Seriously. What's wrong?"

"What do you do if—" she began in a trembling voice, then cut herself off.

Dan stared at her. Lowered his head inquiringly.

"How does a couple move past it when—" She broke off again.

"Just say it, Blair," he said gently. "It'll get easier from there."

Blair took a deep breath.

"—someone _cheats_?" she said. Her eyes flicked up at him, and then she took her martini glass, raised to her lips, and took several deep swallows of the cloudy liquid.

Dan stared at her for a few beats. He opened his mouth. But it took him several seconds to find the words he wanted to say.

Then they came in a torrent.

"That _bastard_," he said.

He ran his hand over his face. "Seriously, Blair—I've held my tongue for the past six weeks. And I had a _lot_ of reservations, but I really, _really _hoped that he'd pull it together this time, but—"

He looked at her. "When are you going to realize that he's _Chuck Bass_ and he's never going to change?"

"Dan—" Blair muttered in a weak voice, shaking her head.

"I don't even want to hear you defend him," he countered. "Look, Blair, at a certain point you're going to have to face the truth. However strongly you feel about him, however much you think you're _meant to be_—he is fundamentally incapable of being in a committed relationship. Not just with you—with _anyone_. He's a self-destructive, self-serving, immature—"

"_DAN!_" Blair yelled.

"_WHAT_?" Dan yelled back at her. " What is it?"

She was silent.

"Well?" he asked. He took a swig of his pint; he swiveled his hand palm-upwards. "Go ahead. _Defend_ him. Create—some _narrative_ in which he's _really not_ that bad of a guy. In which he's just some lonely misunderstood poor little rich boy. I've heard it a million times before, but I'm sure you'll put a new spin on it."

Blair muttered something unintelligible.

"What's that?" Dan asked, his voice flat and impatient.

She tried again, but he still couldn't understand her.

"Blair," he said, and sighed. He resigned himself to hearing her out. "Okay. _What_."

She looked up at him, her lower lip trembling, and took a deep breath.

"Chuck didn't cheat, Dan," she said in a breaking voice, her eyes filling with tears. "It—it was _me_. _I_ cheated on _him_."

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><p><strong>AN: ****Cue dramatic music.**

**Please review. Even if it's just to say "OMFG," or to tell me how much you hate me. ;)**


	2. A Delicate Man

**Six days earlier.**

She was gazing at her image in the full-length mirror, adjusting the straps of her little black dress, and Chuck, dressed in a fitted tuxedo, was standing behind her and kissing her on the shoulder.

"It should be a criminal offense to look as good as you do tonight," he sighed into her skin, his lips moving upwards to her bare neck. Blair's dress was _extremely_ low-cut in the back, and all that exposed skin was driving him mad.

"Mmm," Blair murmured, accepting the compliment. When their eyes met in the mirror, she smiled at him happily. "I have to admit that I couldn't _wait_ for our date tonight. I really didn't think I was going to last until the end of finals."

"I really didn't think that I was going to last another day outside of _you_," Chuck said devilishly. Encircling her waist with his hands, he pulled her body tight against him and nuzzled the nape of her neck. "_Five days_," he growled into her skin, and gave her shoulder a little bite (she let out a little giggle in response). "It's almost as bad as the drought of '09."

"We'll correct that as soon as we get back from the gala," Blair said coolly, her eyes sparkling. "But I for one am looking forward to an evening of slowly building sexual tension." She turned around to face him and began to adjust his bowtie. "Especially with you in a tux."

"You like me in a tux, huh?"

"I _love_ you in a tux," she said, sliding her hands up his chest and kissing him.

They melted into each for a few seconds, but she broke away from him as soon as his hands slid up her bodice.

"Mmm—Chuck, _stop_," she wheedled, smiling and backing away. "I told you—we have a long night ahead of us. There'll be dancing, and champagne, and sexy furtive glances…and _then_ we can come back here and indulge ourselves. Think of it as an extended form of foreplay."

"I'm not going to make it," Chuck groaned. "Can't we just have a quickie before we go?" He tried to slide his hands underneath her skirt. "We could even do it _en route_, in the limo. Just like old times…" he purred at her.

"You can wait, Chuck," Blair scolded him, arresting his hands. "You're not a teenager anymore."

"You make me feel like one," he countered.

"That's because you lack self-control."

"That's because you're smoking _hot_," Chuck corrected her. "It's not my fault you insist on being the most attractive woman in the world."

He kissed her again, and, flattered by the compliment, she kissed him back for several seconds.

"Well," she said, tracing his jawline with her finger and eyeing him lustily, "is it the kind of thing where we maybe could duck out early? I mean, you haven't even told me where we're going…"

"DrexelCorp is throwing a shin-dig to celebrate their first year in the black," Chuck explained. "_And_, I happen to know that they're wooing investors for what will likely turn out to be an extremely lucrative expansion."

"Investors…such as ourselves?" Blair suggested in a sexy voice, her eyes lighting up.

"That's right," Chuck confirmed, giving her another kiss.

Suddenly she pulled away from him, her eyes narrowing slightly.

"How did you find out about the expansion?" she asked. "I haven't read _anything_ about DrexelCorp in the business section lately."

Chuck cleared his throat. "Well, I, uh, I was invited to hear a pitch earlier this week and I have to say, it was quite impressive. They're planning to introduce a line of energy-efficient commercial aircraft. It's technologically innovative. Fills a niche in the market. I like their vision for the future."

At that moment Blair crossed her arms across her chest and regarded Chuck with a skeptical expression that he by now knew very well indeed. So clearly did every line of her face and contour of her body rebuke him for his indiscretion that she might as well have been suffixed with a caption.

"Oh-no-you-_didn't_," it read.

"_You_ went to hear a pitch?" she said, articulating each word separately. "Without me?"

"Well—_yes_," he admitted. "But the only reason I didn't mention it is because it was finals week. You were completely swamped."

"And how long did this meeting take?"

He shrugged. "Half an hour. An hour, counting lunch."

Blair blinked several times. "And how much are you planning on investing?"

"I don't think I remember the exact amount," he hedged.

Blair lilted an eyebrow. "Try to remember," she said very dryly.

Chuck said a number. There were many zeros at the end of it.

"Are you kidding me?" Blair cried. "You didn't think an investment like that warranted a conversation with your _partner_?"

"Well, it's not like we were having leisurely conversations every day over coffee and scones, _Blair_," Chuck returned. "As I recall, you only requested the pleasure of my company once the entire week, and talking wasn't exactly on the agenda."

(Blair's actual text had read: _Stressed 2 the max. In desperate need of orgasm. Preferably multiple. Can you oblige between 4-5PM or 7:30-8:30PM? Alternately 9-10AM tomorrow. Thx_.)

"You could have found the time to tell me about this, Chuck," Blair said angrily, her arms still clamped over her chest.

"What was I supposed to do?" Chuck asked, annoyed. "Mention it during the twenty minutes you allotted for foreplay?"

"That was hardly the _only_ time that you could have told me!" she snapped at him. "You could have said something while you were walking in the door. You could have _texted_, you could have _emailed_. You—"

"You were _too busy_ to make the meeting, _Blair_!" Chuck insisted. "You forget that I _know_ you. I know you have a tendency to overcommit yourself. I know you'll work until you drop if you have your way. I knew that you were stressed about finals and I didn't want you to put any more pressure on yourself. I don't see what's so difficult to understand about that!"

Blair's hands flew up to her forehead. "I can't _believe_ that we're even arguing about this!" she bellowed. "You had _no right_ to decide by yourself that I was too busy to go. I could have _made_ the time. Especially for an investment like this!"

Chuck opened his mouth to rejoin, but she cut him off with an angry swoop of her hand. "I don't even want to hear it, Chuck. You _know_ you should have told me. But for some reason, you chose not to. All you're doing now is making pathetic excuses."

Then she turned her back to him and, shaking her head, took several deep breaths to calm herself down.

Chuck closed his eyes and rubbed his face with his hands. Let out a deep breath.

"You're right," he admitted in a soft voice, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm sorry."

Blair didn't turn around, but her posture grew slightly less rigid.

"But I _do_ want you to be part of this investment," Chuck continued. "That's why I invited you to the gala tonight. You can meet everyone—I'll introduce you as my partner."

"They'll think that by 'partner' you mean 'girlfriend,'" she returned in a bitter voice.

"Then I'll introduce you as my _life_ partner, my _investment_ partner. My everything partner," Chuck murmured, trying to touch her waist.

She turned around to face him, but maneuvered her body out of the reach of his hands.

"That doesn't change the fact that when they meet me I'll be wearing a cocktail dress instead of a business suit," she said in a hollow voice. "They're not going to see me as your equal. They'll see me as your _accessory_."

"No one could ever mistake _you_ for an accessory, Blair," Chuck said in a pacifying tone.

"I should have been there in the room with you when they were making the pitch," she said quietly. She closed her eyes; she shook her head.

"I'm _sorry_," Chuck repeated, not knowing what else to say.

At that moment there was a gentle knock on the door, and they looked over to see Dorota hovering by the threshold.

She cleared her throat. "Mees Blair, Meester Chuck," she began. "Meester Arthur has called up to the penthouse. He wants to know, are you coming down or do you want he should circle the block?"

Chuck looked over at Blair in what he hoped was a deferential way.

She sighed. "Tell him we're coming down right now," she said with a helpless gesture of her hand.

Dorota nodded and disappeared from the doorway.

"Blair—" Chuck said.

Avoiding his eyes, she busied herself checking the contents of her clutch purse.

He tried again. "Look—Blair, look at me for a second."

This time she acquiesced, but with a face like a closed book.

"Blair, when we decided to commit to each other again, we knew that it wasn't going to be easy," he reminded her. "We knew we were going to make mistakes. But we promised each other that we would work through them. _Together_."

Blair let out a scornful laugh. ""_Together_,'" she echoed. "You know, it's funny you put it that way, Chuck. Because _I'm_ always the one who has work through something _you_ did. So how exactly that counts as 'together' I really don't know."

She walked out the door towards the elevator, shrugging off his attempt to take her arm along the way.

**—**

A gala was a classy affair. A quartet was playing easy waltzes, and couples in black-tie attire were gracefully gliding across a circular floor of gleaming hardwood.

Around the dance floor, dozens of intimate tables were already set for dinner. They were still empty at the moment, though; most of the guests were either still dancing or mingling in small groups or three or four.

Outside, on the open balcony, were severally spaced small round tables bearing _hors d'oeuvres_. Some guests were gathered in loose constellations around them, nibbling on delicacies and laughing together.

The fading summer sunlight poured in through the glass walls of the modern building, and waiters rushed about in starched white shirts and black aprons, bearing trays of fluted champagne glasses.

"We probably have at least an hour before dinner," Chuck said to Blair, who had reluctantly agreed to take his arm as they walked in the door for appearances' sake. "Let's go introduce you to the board members that I met the other day."

"_You_ can go chat up the sycophants courting investors," Blair said, extricating her arm from his and plucking a glass of champagne off of a passing tray. "I, on the other hand, am going to mingle, drink, and try to have some fun. And hopefully meet some people who don't have their heads lodged up their own asses," she added under her breath.

"Blair," Chuck said helplessly, and watched her float off in the direction of the bar. Then, recognizing a member of the DrexelCorp board approaching, he forced his teeth into a smile and extended his hand outwards. "Srishti Pavender. How nice to see to you again…"

It seemed to him that he spent the next twenty minutes trying to catch up to Blair. Every time he sidled over to her, she made an excuse and quickly darted away—much to the surprise of whomever she had just been entertaining with her witty commentary on the fashion disasters around her. Then he was stuck for several minutes, introducing himself to the people she had just abandoned, and then, the next time he caught up with her, she did it all over again.

Finally he decided to corner her in a space where she couldn't flutter away so easily, and he spied the perfect opportunity when he saw that she'd ventured out onto the balcony.

She was standing next to a small round table that bore several varieties of hors d'oeuvres, talking to a tall man with tawny hair who looked to be in his early thirties, and whom he vaguely remembered from his visit to DrexelCorp the week before.

"Hi," he said, approaching the table and nodding at the both of them. "I'm Chuck Bass," he said to the man beside Blair, extending his hand.

"Yeah. I, uh—I know who you are," said the man with tawny hair, smiling. Setting down his champagne flute, he took Chuck's hand and shook it in a friendly way. "You're only the biggest potential investor we've got on the line right now."

"I know who you are, too," Chuck said in tone of approval, by this point having recognized the man from the meeting at DrexelCorp. "Jason Mackendry, right? You're Drexel's head of aeronautical engineering."

"Call me Mack," he said. "Everyone does."

"Over the past week I've heard a lot of people singing your praises, Mack." Chuck glanced over at Blair, halfway expecting her to have already snuck away by now. Instead, he saw that she was frozen to the spot, intently eyeing her black satin peep-toes. "They say you're one of the leading people in the business when it comes to energy-efficient body design."

"Ah, yeah," Mack said, bowing his head modestly. "I guess they do say that."

Chuck motioned towards Blair with his head. "I see you've met my girlfriend," he said.

Blair was looking distinctly uncomfortable.

"Your—your girlfriend." Mack's eyes darted over to Blair's face. "_Yeah_. We were—" He gestured towards the panoply of hors d'oeuvres laid on the table. "We were, uh, talking about the shrimp. I was saying that I thought they looked a bit, y'know, dodgy..."

"Blair loves shrimp," Chuck interjected, as if this knowledge gave him some kind of special claim over Blair's affections. "I can't believe she hasn't yet partaken." He glanced down at her empty hands.

"I lost my appetite," Blair muttered almost inaudibly.

"My wife used to say that if there were a world of nothing but shrimp, she'd be able to eat her way through it," Mack said, and laughed.

"I'd like to go inside now, Chuck," Blair cut in. She grabbed Chuck by the elbow. "I just realized my SPF is too low for this level of UV exposure."

"Blair, it's almost eight o'clock at night," Chuck said, baffled. "How high can the UV level _be_?"

"High enough to cause a melanoma if my skin's not adequately _protected_," Blair hissed, and pulled him towards to the door to the banqueting hall.

"Well, it was nice meeting you, Mack," Chuck managed to say before Blair tugged him out of earshot.

"Same to you, Chuck Bass," Mack replied, his expression unreadable.

"See, this is why I'm convinced that this company is the perfect investment for us," Chuck told Blair, who was practically frog-marching him back into the building. "It's filled with people who are the absolute best at what they do. That Mackendry guy used to work for the military, and I hear that he's designing a revolutionary airplane body that will reduce fuel expenditure by three percent, and—"

"That's fascinating, _sweetie_," Blair replied in a poison-laced voice. "Now, if you'll excuse me—"

"Wait—where are you going?" he asked, frowning.

"To the bar." She gave him a little shrug. "Where else would I be going?"

He eyed the flush in her cheeks. "Blair—you're already on what, your third drink? You sure you want to be slurring your own name when I introduce to you to Toshi Ishiguro from research and development?"

Ishiguro had just spotted him and given him a frantic little wave, and Chuck could see him swiftly approaching over Blair's shoulder.

"What difference does it make?" Blair said. "He doesn't know who I am. And even if he does meet me, he's only going to remember me as _Chuck Bass's girlfriend_."

"Blair, that's not the way it has to be," he protested, but she was already ten feet away from him, making a bee-line to the bar that lay right off the dance floor.

He watched her go with no small feeling of frustration. Then he found himself caught in a conversation with Ishiguro (who was a very fast, enthusiastic talker) for several agonizing minutes.

Suddenly, he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around, and there was Mack from the balcony.

"Hey, Chuck," he said in a casual voice. "I—oh, heya, Tosh, how's it going?" (He paused to shake hands with Ishiguro.) "Um, Chuck, I just wanted to ask you…would you mind if I asked Blair to dance? Because she looks like she might be feeling a little lonely..."

He glanced over at the bar, and Chuck followed his gaze.

Blair was sitting on a barstool, watching the dancers and chewing at a martini olive on a toothpick. But she did not look lonely. She looked _pissed_. And Chuck could already tell, to his disappointment, that this was not the type of anger that led to rough, aggressive, mind-bendingly pleasurable sex. No, this was ice-queen Blair, who snapped at him like a steel trap whenever he tried to touch her.

Chuck regarded Mack and considered his request. Well, it _was_ probably a good idea to let another guy bear the brunt of Blair's wrath for a while. And Mack seemed like an okay guy, though he was a little more handsome than Chuck would have liked. Tall. Athletic build. Golden-eyed…but wait, hadn't he said something about his wife earlier? So yeah. Whatever. It was fine.

"Uh, sure. Go ahead," he mumbled.

"Thanks, man." Mack clapped him on the shoulder, and walked off towards the bar.

Chuck turned back to Ishiguro, who was detailing the results of DrexelCorp's fuel efficiency experiments in incredibly minute and boring detail, and nodded at his rapidly moving mouth. All the while he eyed Mack's back as he approached Blair at the bar.

Honestly, he didn't even know why he was bothering to watch. He already knew how Blair was going to react—by slipping on the neutral mask that she so often adopted in uncomfortable social situations, and acquiescing to a spin around the dance floor that would be purely mechanical in nature, as if its circular floor were a carousal and she and Mack its component parts.

But, when Mack walked up and spoke to her, Blair responded in a very different manner than what Chuck had expected.

Rolling her eyes and looking at him as though nothing at that moment could possibly be more annoying than _him_, Blair began to speak to Mack very quickly, her lips curling into what were undoubtedly words of derision and scorn.

It wasn't _just_ annoyance, though—that was the problem. There was a familiarity in Blair's gaze that he found highly troubling.

After all, it was a look that he had received countless times himself.

Forcing himself to tear his gaze away for a few moments, Chuck shifted his position so that Ishiguro's body would block a view of him from the dance floor. As he maintained eye contact with his zealous interlocutor over the next few seconds, he ransacked his brain for an explanation as to what Blair's reaction to Mack could possibly mean, and found none readily available.

The next time he managed to sneak a glance at them, Chuck saw that Mack and Blair were now, against all logical odds, dancing with each other, waltzing around the floor in easy gliding steps. And—even more troublingly—in spite of the fact that Blair was still regarding him angrily, Mack was smiling at her in the most knowing of ways, and his mouth was moving in what appeared to be soothing syllables, and Chuck realized with a pang of jealousy that they were a lot closer together than almost any of the other couples dancing on the floor.

Then—to his horror—Mack was whispering into her ear, his lips almost grazing her skin, and Chuck felt his stomach sink down several inches as he watched Blair's expression soften.

Then, as his girlfriend and the other man continued to dance, whirling around in that circular three-four step, he saw that one of Mack's hands had fallen to rest upon the bare skin at the small of her back, and, then—it was impossible to tell who directed this motion—their clasped hands suddenly swiveled at the palms and interlocked, intimately, at the crotches of their fingers.

It was most certainly not the correct form for dancing a waltz, an error of which cotillion-trained Blair would have been highly aware.

If, at any moment, she had just flicked her gaze towards him, even just _once_, he would have been reassured. He would have known then that she was only trying to make him jealous.

That wouldn't have been ideal by any stretch of the imagination, but it would have at least been _comprehensible_.

But she didn't. No.

She held Mack's gaze unwaveringly, as though they shared a secret.


	3. A Sad, Sad World

**Three months earlier.**

Blair Waldorf was sitting in a midtown bar, morosely regarding the bottom of her martini glass, when suddenly, a meaty hand appeared next to hers.

"Hey, doll," a voice droned into her ear. "You looking for some company tonight?"

Blair looked up to discover a red-haired man in an ill-fitting suit hovering over her, smirking.

He was wearing far too much cologne, and its scent stung her nostrils.

"From a Wall Street bottom-crawler wearing knock-off Givenchy? No thanks."

She turned away from him and sipped at her drink, and the red-haired man stared at her for a few seconds, gaping.

"Your loss!" he finally blurted, and trundled off to rejoin the cluster of his friends, all of similar physiognomy, at the other end of the bar.

Blair rolled her eyes and sucked a martini olive off of the end of a toothpick. God, the audacity of men at bars! Couldn't they tell that she just wanted to be alone? Since she'd walked into this place she'd scarcely had ten uninterrupted minutes in which she could contemplate her own misery in peace.

But, to her chagrin, not another thirty seconds passed before she heard another voice—a mellow, honeyed sort of voice. "Hey," it said.

"Really?" Blair uttered scornfully, still looking at her toothpick. "'_Hey_?' Is that the best you can…" At that moment she looked up to dispatch her next would-be suitor with a witty barb.

In the space of a second she took in his form. And, to her surprise, she saw that he was—well. Attractive.

Very, _very_ attractive.

He was tall. And—broad shouldered. Which was—though she was loath to admit it—her own personal kryptonite.

He looked to be in his early thirties, and he had thick, tawny hair. A tan complexion. And—golden eyes, their irises encircled with a dark ring of gray.

He wore a charcoal suit. Nothing flashy, but it fit him perfectly—especially across the shoulders. And, to her shame and surprise, her entire body was already lighting up across all its erogenous zones.

"—_do_," she finally finished her sentence, regarding him wide-eyed.

The tawny-haired man let out a musical sort of laugh. "_Well_—actually, I was going to say that I admired the way you handled that situation," he said, gesturing with his head towards her previous suitor. "But at the last second I chickened out and decided to go with my stand-by. Which is...yeah. Pretty much '_hey_.'"

Blair looked at him, slack-jawed.

"But, _now_—" (he gestured towards a table several feet away from the bar) "–I feel kind of stupid, so I'm going to go over there. You—well, have a nice evening."

"No—wait," Blair found herself insisting. "I'm...I'm sorry. I've just had a really bad day. A really bad _week_, actually."

"Yeah, and I can't imagine the Goldman-Sachs contingent is helping matters much," the tawny-haired man said, eyeing the meatheads at the other end of the bar.

"They have been particularly bothersome tonight," Blair conceded. Her eyes flicked over his body again. "But you're slightly more tolerable than them," she admitted.

"Oh?" he said with an amused smile. "Well, good. Because that's what I aim for. _Tolerable_."

In spite of herself, Blair let out a laugh. He smiled back at her.

He had a very nice smile.

"Mind if I sit for a while?" he asked.

"Go ahead," Blair heard herself say, and gestured at the empty stool beside her.

"Whiskey. Neat. Thanks," the man said to the bartender, and turned back to make eye contact with her. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Blair," she said, proffering her hand.

"I'm Mack," he said, taking it.

In comparison with his, her hand seemed very small.

"Well, I assume you're not an i-banker, Mack," Blair continued, trying to keep her voice casual and steady.

"No, I am not. I'm an engineer, actually."

"What kind?"

"Well. I design airplanes."

Blair raised her eyebrows, impressed in spite of herself. "_Really."_

Mack nodded. "Actually, I just interviewed here in Manhattan today," he said.

"Oh?" she said, and sipped at her martini. "So you're not a New Yorker?"

"No—well, not _yet_. We'll see. Right now I live in Seattle. Flying back out there at the crack of dawn. What about you? Do you live in the city?"

"All my life," Blair said with a hint of pride.

"Aha. A native New Yorker. And what do you do, Blair, when you're not sitting at bars, inspiring men to make unsuccessful passes at you?"

She laughed. "I'm a student. Columbia. I'm double majoring. Romance Studies and Art History."

"You're out pretty late on a school night," Mack observed, sipping his whiskey.

Blair sighed. "Like I said, I had a rough week."

"You wanna talk about it?"

Apparently Blair did, because a litany of complaints began to pour out of her mouth almost as soon as Mack had finally speaking.

"I'm completely overwhelmed by my new internship, which is pretty much taking up my every waking hour; I'm behind in every single one of my classes; my best friend is pissed at me, and rightfully so; my parents are ignoring me—but, well, that's really just par for the course—_and_ I just overhead my ex-boyfriend—who I'm still completely in love with, by the way—tell another woman that she was _sacred_ to him."

Blair thought she was finished, but then she had to add one final jab. "And she's not even that _pretty_." Then one more. "And she couldn't dress herself to save her life!"

Then she finally was finished. She took a deep swig from her martini.

Mack nodded several times. "That does sound like a pretty shitty week," he said.

"You know, it's sad," Blair said, "but it's the last part that bothers me the most."

"The pretty thing? I mean—" Mack let out a laugh. "The _not_ pretty thing?" he corrected himself.

"No," Blair said sadly. "The _sacred_ thing."

She let out a sigh. "I mean, why is it so hard for me to move on? Because he just ahead went and _did_ it. _He_ moved on. During like, the _five seconds_ that I wasn't looking at him. And I'm still pining over him and he's just—he's doing _fine_. And it really, really _hurts_."

She made a helpless gesture with one hand and continued. "You know, I thought that he and I—that we belonged together. That we would get back together eventually, because we were—_forever_. But now I see that it's possible that that's just not true, and I may have…lost him. And I never in a million years thought that that would happen."

She looked over at Mack, who was staring at the bottom of his glass, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Wh—what about you?" she asked. "Have you ever lost someone you loved?"

"Well. Ye_s_," Mack said slowly. "Though—in a somewhat more literal sense."

"Oh, God." Blair realized her mistake. "Mack, I'm so sor—"

"No, no, no-no-no," he said quickly, waving his hand in front of him. "Blair, it's, it's okay. Really. It's been—_whew_," he whistled through his lips. "Let's see...almost four years now? Almost four years," he confirmed.

"Was she..." Blair hesitated.

"My wife, yeah." Suddenly there was a faraway look in his eyes. "Teresa. _Tez_," he said, accentuating the final syllable with just a hint of pain.

"What happened to her?" Blair murmured.

"Breast cancer. She was only thirty-three years old. I never thought—" he shook his head slightly, and raised his glass to his lips. "I never thought it was possible, but…" he trailed off, and drank from his glass.

"I'm really sorry," Blair said in a gentle voice. "That must have been—unbelievably hard to go through."

"It was," he agreed. "I mean, it _still_ is. But—it gets better." He let out a snort of laughter. "_Kind of_," he modified.

He let out a breath. "You know. The worst part is that you start to wonder—do I really _miss_ her? Like, the _real_ her? I mean, I always picture her when we were at our absolute happiest. The Tez that comes up in my memory is this sweet, perfect angel. She always looks like she did on our wedding day, all white lace and smiles and glowing eyes...but the person who I'm talking about—the _real_ Tez—she, she never did the fucking dishes, she— " (here he laughed at the memory) "she cheated at Monopoly, she belted out Janis Joplin songs in the morning when all I wanted to do was sleep, and she drove like a fucking maniac, I honestly feared for my life whenever I was in the car with her. But—shouldn't _that_ be the Tez I miss? The everyday, ordinary Tez? Because that, _that_ was the woman I really loved.

"I'm sorry," he continued, "this is probably way too much to spring on a girl that I just met at a bar, but I think—I _think_ what I'm trying to say is this: I don't know if it's possible to really miss a person. I think we only miss an _idea _of a person. I'm not sure if I'll ever know the answer to this question: am I longing for _her_? Am I longing for Tez? Or am I just longing for something I can never have again?"

He shrugged. "I don't know," he said, and sipped his whiskey.

Blair let out a breath. "_Mais où sont les neiges d'antan_?" she recited.

"What's that?" Mack said curiously, looking at her face.

"It's a famous line from a French poem. From the Middle Ages. It means 'but where are the snows of yesteryear?'" Blair looked over at him, and, when she saw the way his eyes were roaming over her face, she suddenly felt very self-conscious.

"It's like, this melancholy meditation on the past," she continued, looking at her drink. "And how you can never get it back. So, see—even, like, six hundred years ago people felt the same way as you do.

"Maybe it's just me," she finished, "but I think there's something kind of comforting about that."

There was a protracted silence.

"Also—I cheat at Monopoly, too," she added, trying to lighten the mood.

Mack laughed into his glass.

"_What_?" Blair said, justifying herself. "So you grab a few five hundreds when the banker isn't looking. It's not _that_ bad. I mean, it's hardly more reprehensible than _actual_ business practices! Look at the Bernie Madoff scandal."

"I—I have to admit, I never thought of it that way," Mack admitted, and laughed again.

They regarded each other for a moment.

"Can I buy you another drink, Blair?" he said.

"Oh, I was only going to have—"

_One_, Blair was going to say, but then she looked at his face, and the words that came out of her mouth were, "Sure. I'd love another one."

**—**

A couple of hours later, the bartender was wiping off the bar with a white towel and staring at them pointedly. The bar was nearly empty, but Mack and Blair were still sitting in their stools, talking to each other, and she was leaning towards him, her hand lightly touching his shoulder, giggling over her drink, and he was finishing a story with a series of animated gestures.

"So then I said, 'well, _Jesus_, Jimmy. How I was supposed to know that an _owl_ would fly into the turbine?'"

"Oh, God, _Mack_," Blair said, shaking her head, as an incredulous smile spread across her face. "That poor owl!"

"Poor _owl_?" Mack repeated. "Poor _me_! I mean, all it took was one fucking owl. One...mentally deranged—" (Blair laughed at this) "—_suicidal_ owl, and there went _three months_ of work. My brilliant new prototype was out. Just like that. _Auuugh_," he moaned, shaking his head. "It was a miracle that they gave me even a lukewarm letter of recommendation after that internship.

"So, _Blair,_" he said, finishing off the last of his glass of whiskey, "the point of the story is—no matter how bad you have it at _W_ right now—"

"At least I don't have to worry about suicidal owls?" Blair completed his sentence.

"That's right. That's—" At this point they both erupted into laughter for several seconds, and Mack put his hand on his face in an embarrassed way. "That's the moral of my story. _Obviously_," he finished.

Blair giggled. "Next time Epperly yells at me for forgetting the extra foam on her non-fat sugar-free hazelnut Venti latte, I'll remember you and your owl, and I won't feel so bad."

"Well, good," Mack said. "That was my intention."

Suddenly, the bartender cleared his throat in front of them. "Um, sorry, folks. It's been a pleasure, but I'm afraid it's time to close out."

"Oh, no, no, Blair," Mack said, as she reached for her purse. "I got it." He took out a money clip and peeled off several twenties.

"Thanks," Blair said with a little smile.

"So, um. Where are you headed now?" he casually asked as he tossed a few bills on the counter, leaving the bartender a generous tip.

"Home, I guess," Blair said. With a pang of regret she realized that they were slowly moving towards saying goodbye. "What about you?"

"Oh," he said, throwing the strap of a leather satchel over his shoulder. "The airport."

"You're not going to sleep?"

"Oh, no, I don't think so. I mean, it's already so late...I just don't see the point of checking into a hotel. I'll just sit on a bench at JFK and catch up on my email. I can sleep on the plane."

"I can never sleep on a plane," Blair said with a roll of her eyes.

"When I'm on a plane I sleep like a baby."

"Well." She hesitated. "Mack, I'm going home now but—if you're going to the airport, my place is pretty much on the way, and we could—well, we could share a cab. If you want." She shrugged.

"Yeah, sure," Mack said slowly, his eyes floating over her face. "Why not."

**—**

Even though there was plenty of room in the back seat of the cab—more than enough to allow for a generous amount of space between them—throughout the ride Mack's upper arm was pressed against her shoulder, and his thigh was against her jostling knee, and even this slight touch, this tantalizing proximity, made Blair feel a sexual flush throughout her body that, compounded with the pleasant buzz from the alcohol, put her in a half-delirious haze.

At one point, the cab rounded a sharp curve and his hand accidentally brushed against hers, and she felt her mouth go dry and her heart begin to thump.

As the ride neared its end, she began to feel more and more nervous.

She knew that she should just stop thinking—just enjoy these last few intoxicating moments with him—but she was already thinking ahead to how she'd say goodbye.

She already knew she wanted to see him again if she could. But would he ask for her number? Tell her he liked her?

_Kiss her?_

As these questions churned in her mind—making her incapable of sustained intelligent conversation—their talking fell off a bit. They exchanged a few stilted comments about dressing for New York winters, about the oppressive clouds and rain that perpetually hung over Seattle.

Finally they pulled up in front of Blair's apartment building, and she turned to face him with a sigh.

"Well," she said reluctantly, "this is me."

"Fifth Avenue, huh?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah," she replied, not knowing what else to say.

They looked at each other for a few moments, and Blair opened her mouth.

Okay, she thought, trying to steady herself. This was the moment to say, "Well, it was really nice meeting you, I enjoyed our conversation, good luck with your job, your life, your everything."

But the words just wouldn't come out of her mouth.

Instead, she was staring at his mouth and feeling more than a little lightheaded.

"Blair," Mack said softly.

"What," she whispered back, a feeling of apprehension surging through her chest.

"This is the part where you invite me in," he said.

"Wh—What?" she said dumbly, trying to process his meaning.

He laid his hand over her knee, and she felt a surge of arousal that almost made her gasp out loud.

"Invite me in," he repeated.

Blair swallowed. "Would you like—" (_oh my God was she actually doing this?_) "—You, you wanna come in for a minute?" she asked.

"I'd love to," he said, and smiled at her.

With wide eyes she immediately turned away from him, opened the door to the cab and stepped out onto the curb.

She walked up to her door, her heart pounding in her chest. In the background she heard the noise of Mack chatting with the cabbie and retrieving his bag from the trunk, and after quickly glancing back to confirm that he was following her into the building, she lowered her eyes to avoid the doorman's probing gaze and traipsed across the threshold onto the white marble floor.

"Damn, Blair," Mack said behind her, easily matching her harried strides with his long legs. "Your place is _swank_."

"Yeah, uh, it's been in the family for a while," she said, heading to the elevator and sliding a card through its gleaming metal panel.

"Is this, like, your own private elevator?" Mack asked as the doors slid open.

Blair tucked a strand hair behind her ear as they entered the elevator. At the moment she didn't exactly feel like giving him a run-down of the Waldorf penthouse and its amenities, but anything was better than a loaded, sexually torturous silence.

Anything to distract him from the fact that her hands were shaking, her pulse fluttering behind her breastbone.

"Yeah, it's just for us," she said, "we—"

And then Mack let his satchel drop to the floor of the elevator with a _thump_, and his hands were suddenly in her hair, and his mouth was blossoming into hers.

She moaned into his mouth, kissing him back hungrily, and almost before she knew it, he had reached down and lifted her up by the hips, and she was against the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist, and her arms were encircling his broad shoulders, her hands roaming through his thick hair, and she felt like a waterfall was churning through her, so unbearable was her sudden arousal.

The elevator doors slid open with a cheery _ding_ that seemed oddly of place.

"Is this the right place?" he asked, his breath already ragged.

"Mmm," she answered in the affirmative, kissing him again, and, still carrying her easily, his arms interlocked under her hips, he walked her out of the elevator.

"Which way?"

She gestured with her head.

"Up the stairs?"

"Mmm-hmm," she mumbled, leaning forward to capture his mouth again.

"Whoa—hold on for second, Blair," Mack said with a little laugh. "If you kiss me when I'm going up the stairs I might end up falling and breaking both our necks."

"I'll try," she said breathily, reaching down to loosen his tie. She lowered her head and busied herself kissing his neck as he quickly jogged up the curved staircase.

"This one?" he said, rounding the top of the stairs and gesturing to the first door on his right.

"No no no—the next door, down the hall," Blair said in alarm, suddenly filled with horror at the idea of bursting into Serena's room with her legs wrapped around a strange man she'd just brought home from a bar.

"_That_ one," she said, as they approached the door to her bedroom.

And then he was laying her down on her back on her bed, and he was crawling between her parted legs, and he was kissing her. And she was pushing off his jacket, and he was unbuttoning her blouse, unzipping her skirt. Within seconds she was practically naked, and his mouth was suckling her breasts, and she was so turned on by the suddenness of it all, by the newness of his body, that when he pulled her panties down her hips and slid his hand up her thighs to caress her, she threw back her head and moaned.

"God, you are so unbelievably fine," he said in a tone of wonder, as he slid one of his fingers inside of her, then another, and then slid them out again, and in again, over and over. All the while the thumb of his other hand circled over her clit, and before Blair knew it—she didn't know it until now, but she'd been waiting for it all night—she was already tightening rhythmically around his fingers, her entire body convulsing, buckling.

She came in a gush over his palm, trembling and letting out little ecstatic whimpers.

He stopped for a moment and watched her gasp.

She looked up at him, still unsatisfied, and she reached up to unbuckle his belt. He let her do it; he let her shove down his pants. All the while he was unbuttoning his shirt, kicking off his shoes—and then he was kneeling on the bed in front of her, naked, his cock rock hard and jutting up in front of her, and she took him into her hands.

"Oh, God, Blair," he moaned, as she pumped him up and down. "Please let me fuck you."

"Okay," she breathed, and almost before the word was out of her mouth he was reaching to the floor, fishing through a pocket in his trousers for his wallet, and he came back with a square foil packet, which she took from him, tore open, and, carefully pinching it at the tip, rolled the condom down over his erection.

As soon as she was done he reached down and grabbed her at the waist and flipped her body over (she let out a little cry of surprise) and he pulled her hips upwards and backwards so that she was on her hands and knees, and she groaned as he rubbed his head up and down her slit and slowly pushed himself inside of her.

He paused for just a moment, his breath fluttering against the nape of her neck. before he began to thrust into her, his hands grabbing her hips, guiding her backwards to meet his rhythm.

Eyes fluttering shut, head hazy with arousal, Blair set her palms against her headboard. It immediately began to smack against the wall - _bam, bam, bam_ - but she was too far gone to care about the noise.

Suddenly Mack gave her ass a little slap, and she let out a sharp cry of intermingled pleasure and pain.

"_Yes_," she heard herself say.

"You like that?" She heard his voice rasp behind her.

"_Yes_," she gasped.

He slapped her ass again, and she arched back into him, moaning, and—after taking a few moments to stroke her clit until she was on the brink of another orgasm—he was fucking her, and she was—_oh God, _she was coming again, she was thrashing against him, she was crying out his name.

His thrusts forced her body down until she was flat on her stomach with only her hips jutting up, and, in the moment that her climax began to subside, she heard him moan that he was going to come. He pounded into her a few more times before he shuddered and slowed to a stop, and half collapsed on top of her.

After a few moments he pulled out of her and sat back on his knees, and Blair rolled over to look at him, suddenly feeling a little shocked and strange.

After all, it had been less than ten minutes since they had first kissed.

"Where can, I, uh—" He gestured towards his lap.

"The bathroom," she said. "Right through that door."

"Okay," he said, and disappeared into the darkness at the other end of the room.

_Oh my God_, Blair thought to herself in dismay. _What did I just do?_

On unsteady feet she walked over to her dresser, opened the top drawer, and took out a silken nightie. She pulled it over her naked body, then returned to the bed, where she sat down, and made a couple of attempts to comb through her hair with her fingers.

She didn't look at Mack as he walked back over to the bed. To her relief, he paused along the way to pick up his trousers. He pulled them back on, tightening and buckling his belt, and then he reached down to pick his shirt off the floor and slid his arms into the sleeves.

"Hey," he said, stepping into his shoes and sitting down on the bed. "Um, look. This is going to sound horrible, but—" He glanced at his watch. "I should probably go. I mean, I need to be at the boarding call in less than an hour, and—"

"That's fine," Blair said in a clipped voice. "I get it."

"Blair—look, I can tell that you don't usually do this," Mack began. Off of her mortified look, he quickly added, "I mean, not _that_—I don't _mean_—" He sighed. "Oh God. It was _great_, Blair, you're...you're absolutely incredible. I just get the feeling you're not the kind of girl who goes around picking up guys at bars."

"No," Blair murmured. "Not so much."

He stroked her hair. "Look, I know this is a little…awkward, and maybe it's a strange thing to say, because I may not even be coming back to New York again, but—" He let out a deep breath. "I _like_ you. I really, _really_ do, and if you'll let me, I'd love to put my number in your phone. And if you want to text me, you can. And if you don't—well." He smiled at her. "I'll be a more than a little disappointed, but that's fine too. Is that okay?"

"Yeah," Blair said, beginning to smile. "That's—that's fine."

She reached down to the floor, fumbled through her purse and gave him her phone, and she watched as he entered in his number and saved it with a press of a button.

"Okay," he said, giving it back.

Then he was clasping her body to his, and she was tightening her arms around his torso. She set her face against his shoulder and inhaled his scent, as though she were trying to get one last fix of him before he left.

They lingered in their embrace for a moment, and then, parting from her, tilting her face up, he gently kissed her on the lips.

"Good night, Blair," he said.

"Good night, Mack," she said.

He picked up his coat off the floor, and—after giving her one last wistful smile—he left.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So now you know how Blair knows Mack. The question is, how's Chuck going to react when he finds out about the intimate night they shared?**

**Tune in next time to find out. And in the meantime, please review. ;)**

**And special thanks to my lovely beta, Maribells, whose current fic you should be following if you're not already.**

**And to everyone, thanks so much for reading and reviewing!**


	4. When a Girl Will Break a Boy

**A/N: This chapter references the plot of my previous fic, "Into the Woods," which revolves around the premise that Chuck and Serena had a fling before the pilot episode. Again, you don't have to read either of these stories if this plot point bothers you.**

* * *

><p><strong>Back at the gala.<strong>

Of course, the last person Blair was expecting to see when she walked out on the balcony was Mack.

She didn't see him at first. At least, not right away. She had just bitten into a mini-quiche crowned with caramelized onions when she heard a voice say her name just a few feet beside her.

And there he was, standing right next to the table.

Blair felt her cheeks flush with blood. "Oh. Hi," she mumbled through her bite of quiche.

Her eyes quickly took in his image. His tawny hair was clipped a bit shorter, and he was wearing a flawlessly fitted tux (_with tails_, she noted, with an involuntary surge of sartorial appreciation), but he looked the same—if not a little more handsome—than she remembered.

Mack let out a breath. "Well. I knew it was kind of stupid, since there are like eight million people in this city, but I was hoping I might run into you again, Blair. But I guess I just wasn't expecting for it to happen tonight."

"That makes two of us," Blair said nervously, setting her empty champagne flute on a passing tray and picking up a full one to replace it.

She took a sip. The golden liquid bubbled against her lips.

"So. I, uh, guess you got the job you were interviewing for, huh?" she went on.

"Yeah," he said. "I sold my place in Seattle and moved to Manhattan a couple of months ago."

"It's been going well?"

"Better than well. Great, actually," he said. "DrexelCorp's the perfect company for me. They've been really…well, they really appreciate my ideas. But what about you? How have medieval French literature and the Impressionists been treating you lately?"

"Oh. I—I switched majors. I'm doing Econ now."

"Huh." He nodded a couple of times. "That's…quite a change."

"It seemed more suited to my natural abilities," Blair said.

_More suited to the future head of a global empire,_ she corrected in her mind.

"So, Blair—" Mack hesitated a bit. "You, uh, you never did call me. I thought that you—well, I know these things are kind of touch and go, but—I kind of thought that you would."

"I—I'm sorry. Things were really hectic at my internship for a while."

"Yeah? How's that going?"

"Oh—I—I got fired. Well, I quit. But—" She licked her lips and spoke more quickly. "But then I got back together with my ex, and it just seemed, kind of, I don't know, _gauche_ to call, and…"

She looked at him with a sigh. "I'm really not good at these kinds of things, Mack," she admitted.

"Look, Blair—it's okay," Mack said. "You don't owe me anything. But, uh—did you just say you got back together with your ex? You mean—the one you were talking about the night we met? The one who was, you know. Making you miserable?"

And then, to Blair's horror, Chuck was suddenly there beside them, and he was saying "Hi" in that business-y way of his, and shaking hands with Mack, and all she could think was how to get them away from each other as soon as humanly possible.

**—**

Once she and Chuck were back inside, it quickly became apparent to Blair than she needed something stronger to drink than champagne. So she left Chuck to the ramblings of that Japanese guy, and settled down on a bar stool, clutching a martini glass for dear life.

Crossing her legs tightly over each other, drawing her elbows in at the sides, Blair made a cage out of her body that said to everyone, "Keep away."

It didn't work, though. A few minutes later, that handsome motherfucker was standing in front of her again, and to her complete amazement he was asking her to dance.

"Are you out of your flipping mind?" Blair scolded. "You want to dance with me. In front of my boyfriend. Uh, no thanks. I think that scene out there on the balcony was enough awkwardness for one evening."

"Well," Mack said slyly, "I already asked him if it was all right, and he said yes. So now you have to dance with me, or it'll look weird." He paused for a moment. "Is that what you want?" He smiled.

Blair looked at him in shock. Apparently the man was capable of engineering more than airplanes.

At first she was loath to go, but it then occurred to her that the dance floor was a place where she could talk to Mack with little to no chance of being overheard. And they definitely had a few things to straighten out between them.

So, with a roll of her eyes, she rose from her bar stool and walked over to the dance floor, where he took her left hand and lifted it to his shoulder, and clasped her right hand in his. Setting his left hand on her side, he began to lead her into a waltz that was, if not polished, passable.

Their proximity was a little more pleasant than she would have liked.

"I cannot believe they let people with no sense whatsoever make _airplanes_," she said to him in a poisonous voice, as she followed his lead. "Remind me to never to fly with anyone who carries your line from DrexelCorp. I don't fancy plummeting to a watery doom."

"You can be a little bitchy sometimes, huh?" Mack said with an admiring smile, as their feet glided backwards and forwards in easy synchronicity.

"You just now figured that out?"

He let out a little laugh. "So," he said, steering her around the dance floor. "_Chuck Bass_ is your boyfriend." He paused for a moment to contemplate this. "You know, as soon as he walked up to us on the balcony…" He trailed off. "Well, it's kind of like those scenes in the movies where the new kid in town meets the prettiest girl in school, and then her rich preppy boyfriend comes along and drags her away?"

"Chuck is not a mean jock from an eighties teen movie," Blair replied, a furrow appearing between her eyebrows.

"No, no, you're right," Mack conceded. "He's more like, ah—Bruce Wayne. He's got that brooding orphan, heir-to-daddy's-empire part down pat. Except, you know," he quickly amended, "without the whole...redeeming Batman thing."

"Where do you get off saying things like that?" Blair said, annoyed. "You don't even know Chuck. You met him like one second ago."

"I know the gossip floating around DrexelCorp. Apparently he never worked a day in his life—at least not until his father died, and Bass Industries fell into his lap. And he's also rumored to have issues with substance abuse. And a bad temper. And there's also the fact that he's the most notorious womanizer in the history of Manhattan. Is that completely inaccurate?"

Blair remained stubbornly silent.

"What can I say," he continued. "It's a little disappointing to see a woman like you get caught up with a guy like that."

"You are so presumptuous, it's nauseating," Blair said.

"The only thing I presumed was that you weren't the kind of girl who gets dazzled by metric fucktons of money," Mack said. "I mean—I knew you were a Park Avenue princess. But I thought you were different from the rest."

"I am not dating Chuck because of his _money_," Blair said, disgusted.

"Oh yeah? So if he were a dirty hipster from Williamsburg carrying an instamatic and a forty of PBR, you'd still be into him?"

Blair recoiled in horror at the mental image inspired by that description. That sounded like someone _Vanessa_ would date.

"He—he wouldn't be who he _is_ then!" she sputtered.

"Who he _is_ is a twenty-year-old billionaire, Blair," Mack reminded her. "You think that's like, some amazing coincidence?"

"Stop patronizing me," she snapped at him angrily.

"_Actually_," he said, as he led her in a series of dexterous steps across the floor, "it's pronounced 'pah-tronizing.'" He looked down at her and smirked. "Just for, you know. Future reference."

Blair exhaled through her nostrils like an angry little bull. Under ordinary circumstances, a withering reply would already be on the tip of her tongue, waiting to spring out and lash its victim. But at the moment, she was more than a little distracted. With her arm on Mack's muscular shoulder, and his hand firmly pressed against the curvature of her waist, and his scent rolling in her nostrils, her body was beginning to respond to him, in spite of her best efforts against it.

"You're trying to provoke me," she finally said, trying not to betray how provoked she really was.

"Aww. Why on earth would I want to do that."

"You might think that you know everything there is to know about Chuck," she said, trying to maneuver the conversation back into a safe zone, "but trust me, you don't. It's true that he's a complicated man. But there's more than enough good in him to make up for the bad."

Mack gasped. "You mean—there _is_ a redeeming Batman thing?" he asked in mock surprise.

"He and I have been together, on and off, for the past three years," Blair said, her impassioned defense of Chuck growing in proportion to the traitorous activity in her erogenous zones. "By now, I know him pretty well, okay? And I know that we're a good match. We complement each other perfectly."

"Three years, on and off, huh?"

"That's right," she said.

"Well. If you're so perfect together," Mack asked, as though he were genuinely curious to know the answer, "then…why do you think you keep breaking up over and over and over again?"

Blair opened her mouth, racking her mind for a glib reply. But the truth was that there was no easy way to answer the question.

"Well?" Mack said.

And then suddenly the past three years with Chuck whirled like a tornado through her brain.

His deliberate cruelty, for one thing. The way he abandoned her, for another.

His refusal to say, "I love you."

The way he shut her out after his father's death.

The manipulations, the humiliations. The schemes to drive her away from other men—or other men away from her.

The jealousy. The drinking.

He was willing to prostitute her—to send her over to his worst enemy—just to keep the Empire for himself.

His flings with countless unnamed women. Not to mention Jenny. Eva. Raina.

His seeming inability to recognize when he'd been in the wrong. His refusal to cave in and apologize.

His way of making her feel like she'd never be able to stand alone. That she'd always be standing in his shadow instead.

Suddenly Blair realized that she'd been silent for several moments. She exhaled and clenched her eyes shut for a moment, trying to regain her composure.

Finally, she opened her eyes.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she said to Mack in an unsteady voice.

"_Why_?" Mack repeated. "Well…based on my admittedly limited knowledge of the situation, I think it is extremely unlikely that your boyfriend deserves you. But—before you get to thinking that I'm doing this out of the pure goodness of my heart, I'll admit that I have an ulterior motive."

Leaning forward, he whispered into her ear, and the vibration of his voice sent a sexual shock through her entire system.

"I _like_ you, Blair," he said, his lips very close to her skin. "I really, really do. And maybe I am being presumptuous, but—well. I think you maybe kind of like me too."

Then his palm was sliding down from her waist to touch the exposed skin at the small of her back (and this motion invoked the memory of his palms, sliding against her naked hips, as he fucked her from behind) and he interwove the fingers of his right hand with hers (and she recalled his cool hands cupping the contours of her face as he sweetly kissed her goodnight, _goodbye_, in the half-darkness of her bedroom).

"I'm with someone," Blair murmured helplessly, not realizing that she hadn't yet managed to voice a denial that she liked him.

"Blair, a blind man could tell that you're not happy with Chuck at the moment," Mack said. "Now I could sit around and wait a few months for your relationship with him to self-destruct—which, honestly, seems to me to be pretty inevitable, given your history—or I can just tell you right now that _I like you_. And if you like me, and if you want to go for it—" He let out a little laugh. "I'm telling you that I'm down. Right now. _Tonight_. Because, if there's one thing I know about relationships, it's that tomorrow's not a guarantee."

"I—I don't—" She was too confused to get out an articulate sentence.

"Blair, you're the only woman I've met since Tez—" Mack stopped, and swallowed, and started again. "I've thought about you about _every single day_," he said to her in an urgent whisper, and he gave her a look of such tenderness that her heart began to flutter in her chest, and her head began to swim, and without thinking she leaned into him and let her forehead rest against his shoulder.

Just for a second. Just to get her bearings.

And when she lifted her head and opened her eyes, she saw that Chuck was approaching them, making quick strides across the dance floor. And his face was like a burning torch.

"Mack—" she started to warn him, but then Chuck's hand was twirling tightly around hers, and he was pulling her out of Mack's embrace, his feet already whisking her away in a practiced three-four step.

"Time for me to cut in, Mackendry," he said, making no effort to sound particularly polite. "Thanks for entertaining my girlfriend in my absence."

Due to years of experience at high society events, which he was far more likely to attend if they included dancing (i.e., an easy opportunity to touch, murmur at, and generally be seductive to women), Chuck Bass was an excellent dancer. He guided Blair expertly into several quick spins across the floor, putting as much distance between them and Mack as possible.

Taking note of the stiffness of his spine and the clenched muscles of his jaw, Blair was already dreading the moment that Chuck would speak. Because when he did, she knew it would be a question that she wasn't prepared to answer.

"Do you know that guy?" Chuck growled, staring somewhere off in space over her shoulder.

"…what?" she said, feigning innocence.

"It's a yes or no question, Blair."

"Where would I know him from?" Blair replied. "It's not like you bothered to take me to the meeting at DrexelCorp or anything."

"And you're still dodging the question," Chuck said. "Which makes me think that you're stalling, which makes me think that you're trying to decide whether or not to lie to me. I'll help you out with your pressing dilemma, Blair—_don't_."

For the first time during the conversation their eyes met, and a crackle of fury passed between them.

"I met him _once_," Blair said.

"When."

"A few months ago. Right around the time you were telling Raina Thorpe that she was _sacred_ to you."

At this a flicker of annoyance registered on Chuck's face. "Where," he continued.

"A bar. Midtown."

"You met him in a bar."

"That's right."

"So you had a few drinks together, huh?"

"Pretty much."

Chuck nodded a few times, continuing to lead her in the angriest waltz she'd ever danced. "Anything else that I should know about?"

Blair was silent.

"Did—" His voice caught on the words like cloth catching on a hook. "Did you go home with him?"

"No," Blair said, and swallowed. "He came home with me."

Under her hands she could feel Chuck's body grow even tenser.

"So you fucked him, huh?" he asked in a guttural voice. Over her shoulder, he eyed Mack chatting to a couple of women at the periphery of the dance floor.

"Why do you always have to be so crass," Blair muttered.

"You did fuck him, then." He continued to stare over her shoulder. Mack was now laughing with the women. They were raising their glasses and toasting each other. "Well, how was it? Did he make you _come_?"

Even thought she knew he would read it as an affirmative, Blair remained stubbornly silent.

Chuck tried to swallow, and realized there was a lump in his throat.

Across the hall, he watched as Mack turned his gaze once again to the dance floor. He made eye contact with Chuck. Then he raised his glass to him, tilted it in a salute, and drank.

"We're leaving, Blair," Chuck said, his voice eerily steady. "Right now."

"What?" Blair said incredulously. "Don't be ridiculous, Chuck. The dinner hasn't even—_ow!_" she cried, as he jerked her by the arm and pulled her towards the lobby.

**—**

With the exception of a few latecomers standing around the coat-check counter, the lobby was empty. Blair's high heels loudly echoed against the floor as she struggled to keep up with Chuck's quick strides.

"I can't believe you're dragging me out of here because I slept with someone who happens to be in the room," Blair hissed at Chuck, whose hand was still clamped like a vise on her wrist. "If I adopted the same policy for you we'd never go out in Manhattan again."

"We can discuss that in the limo," Chuck said. He was already paging Arthur with his other hand.

There was the sound of heavier footsteps hitting the floor somewhere behind them. Blair turned around to see that Mack was hurrying after them.

"_Hey_," he called out sharply as he approached, jogging to catch up.

Chuck turned around. As soon as he saw Mack, he let out a scoff of disbelief.

"Oh, this _so_ does not concern you, man," he growled at him.

"Yeah? Respectfully, I disagree," Mack said. "When I see anyone getting rough with a woman, I tend to get concerned. Blair, are you okay?"

Few people would have described Chuck Bass as a physically imposing man, but there was no one on the planet who would have denied that he was an intimidating presence at that moment. The fire in his eyes seemed to say that he was capable of anything.

"You stay the _fuck_ away from my girlfriend, Mackendry!" Chuck yelled, pointing at Mack with two vehement fingers.

"_Chuck_," Blair groaned, looking around and realizing that the few people left in the lobby were staring at them. "Please don't make a scene."

Chuck took a deep breath and let it out audibly, trying keep hold of what was left of his temper. "No," he said, turning to Blair and speaking only to her. "There won't be a scene. Because we're leaving. Now."

"Blair, you don't have to go with him if you don't want to," Mack interjected.

"I'm perfectly aware of that, Mack," she quickly snapped back at him.

"Blair, right now you're going to walk with me out of this building without looking back," Chuck commanded.

Blair recoiled from him. "I don't take orders from you either," she said. "Right now you're acting like you're completely out of your mind!"

"Blair…" Chuck stopped and took another deep breath. "I'll admit that I'm very upset right now. I'm not telling you what to do. But I am _asking_ you to leave with me. And if I still mean something to you I hope that you'll say yes."

Blair sighed. "Fine," she said. "Let's just get the hell out of here."

"You have gotta be kidding me," Mack said to the ceiling.

"You shut your fucking mouth, Mackendry!" Chuck bellowed at him, this last comment having plainly sent him over the edge. "Let's get one thing straight between us. You don't talk to her, you don't see her, you don't pass her on the _fucking street_, or I swear to God you will regret the day you ever crossed Chuck Bass."

"Are you _threatening_ me?" Mack said, incredulous.

"I'm a powerful man and I have a lot of connections, Mackendry," Chuck said, as Blair face-palmed in the background. "I'll leave it up to you to decide what that means."

"Yeah, and I've got still friends in the Department of Defense," Mack said, by this point irate himself. "So go ahead, Bass. Call in your favors. Knock yourself out!"

"Dear God, can we please just _go_ before this gets any more mortifying," Blair moaned, pulling at Chuck's arm.

And Chuck, throwing one last death-glare back at Mack, adjusted his tuxedo jacket, took Blair by the hand and walked with her down the short flight of stairs leading to the building's entrance.

She did look back, though. Just for a second. And the look in Mack's eyes was like a nail piercing her heart.

**—**

Several minutes had gone by, and neither Blair nor Chuck had ventured to speak to one another.

"What a disaster," Blair finally sighed. She was sitting with her head in her hand, watching the lights of Manhattan dart by through the tinted windows of the limo. "I hope none of the members of the DrexelCorp board were in the lobby to witness that scene."

"Oh, so _now_ you care about our investment. That's…interesting," Chuck said. He was already on his second glass of scotch.

"Are you seriously not going to apologize?" Blair said in a flat voice, still looking out of the window.

"Apologize for what?" Chuck threw back immediately. "You're the one who should apologize."

"_Me_?" Blair said, turning to face him with commensurate anger. "For what?"

"Do you even have to ask? I turn my back for one second and you're off getting _pawed_ by some guy you met and had sex with on the same night!"

"Hello, _double standard_!" Blair retorted. "How many times have you gone out and come home with a random? Or do numbers even go that high?"

"This is different, Blair," Chuck said, shaking his head.

"Why?" Blair demanded. "Because you're a man and I'm a woman? I don't even want to hear that…misogynist—bullshit!" She folded her arms over her chest and turned away from him again.

"Blair. It's not because you're a woman. It's not even because you're my girlfriend. It's because it is _not like you_ to do something like that. And that freaks me out. I mean—" Chuck swallowed, and went on to say in a far less steady voice, "who _is_ this guy? What is he to you?"

"Nothing!" Blair insisted. "He's…he's nothing at all. Chuck, believe me. You have no reason to be jealous."

"Are you kidding?" Chuck said weakly. "I saw you on the dance floor—he was touching you, you were leaning against his chest—"

"You're misreading things," she returned. "You know how jealous you are."

"I am not jealous. Not—_inordinately_ so. Tonight I was provoked in the extreme."

"That is _so_ not true," Blair replied. "You'd keep me cloistered away from other men 24/7 if you could have your way."

"That is total _bullshit_!" Chuck declared. "What about Dan Humphrey! I let you go on a date with that self-righteous ass every single week."

"_Let_ me?" Blair snarled. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Am I your _property_? I might as well say that I _let_ you go have brunch with Serena every Sunday morning."

"That is completely different, Blair."

"Oh yeah, I _forgot_," Blair yelled. "Because I haven't _slept_ with Dan Humphrey!"

There was a moment of loaded silence.

"That is ancient history, Blair," Chuck finally said. "There is no point in bringing that up. It has no place in this discussion."

"Chuck," Blair said, "I have never given you a reason not to trust me. In fact—I've had Mack's number in my phone for _months_, and I have never once ventured to text him or call him. I am _happy_ with _you_. Or at least I was until you started acting like a complete freaking lunatic."

Chuck stared at her for a second. "You have his number in your phone. You kept it."

"Yeah," Blair said. "And like I said, I never—"

Chuck was already reaching across the seat and fumbling in her purse.

"What on God's green earth are you doing?" she asked.

"I'm going to delete that number," Chuck said, pulling out her phone.

"You have no right to decide whose number goes in my phone," Blair said furiously, and tried to snatch the phone out of his hands, but he was stronger than her, and managed to wrestle it out from her fingers.

"When it belongs to some guy trying to _bone_ you, yes, I think I do," he said, holding the phone aloft and away from her.

"That's _my_ phone!" Blair yelled, and climbed over his legs to retrieve it.

An ugly tussle ensued.

When she failed to pry the phone from his hand, she sunk her fingernails into his skin, causing him to cry out in pain and loosen his grip. While he was distracted she pressed her advantage and managed to recapture the phone. Then she stumbled onto the floor of the limo, but he lunged after her, caught her around the waist, and then lost his footing, causing both of them to tumble to the floor.

"Asshole," Blair hissed at him, slapping at his face with the palm of one hand, and trying to hold the phone aloft and out of his reach with the other. But then he grabbed her hand and smacked her wrist into the interior paneling, causing her to cry out in pain and drop the phone. When he picked it up, she began to pummel his chest with the sharp heels of her hands, repeating "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you." Frustrated, he finally pushed down her arms with his hands and set his knees against them so that she was pinned to the floor, and as she lay beneath him, immobilized and seething with rage, he scrolled through her contacts, found Mack's number, and deleted it.

He let out a ragged breath and threw the phone onto her lap as he rose to his feet. "_There_," he said.

Then he returned to his seat and poured himself another scotch.

Blair looked up at him from the floor of the limo, panting, hair mussed, and flushed in the cheeks. Then she got up, smoothed back her hair, and walked over to the front of the limo to rap on the glass to the driver's seat.

At that moment Chuck realized he'd gone too far.

"Blair—" he said.

"FUCK YOU!" she screamed at him, with tears of anger in her eyes, and turning towards the open partition, said in a strangled voice, "Arthur, I need you to pull over."

And Arthur complied, and Blair, grabbing her purse and throwing off Chuck's one last attempt to arrest her by the arm, opened the door to the limo and ran out into the street.

Arthur was astounded. "Should—should I follow her, Mr. Bass?" he asked.

"No, Arthur," Chuck said. "Just…"

He let out a deep breath. Made a little wave with his hand. "Just let her go."


	5. Don't You Tell Me to Deny It

**The next day.**

"And then he said, 'well, if you'd actually _read_ the novel then maybe you'd know what Flaubert meant when he said "Madame Bovary, _c'est moi_!"'" Serena said in an surprisingly accurate imitation of Dan Humphrey, and stabbed her fork into her scrambled egg whites with such aggression that the metal tines clanged against the porcelain plate.

Chuck pinched the bridge of his nose and winced. Usually he looked forward to brunch at the van der Woodsens. During the past few weeks it had become a comfortable routine for him—show up on Sunday at noon, take off his coat, and sit down at the table to chat with his step-siblings over carbs and mimosas.

Today, however, his headache and his own pressing problems were interfering with his ability to endure Serena's latest diatribe on Humphrey with even a blank expression on his face.

Still, he had to admit that nearly anything was better than reliving the memory of the disastrous night before.

"I mean, how pretentious can you _get_?" Serena continued. "It's not like I don't read books. I just…haven't happened to have read that particular _one_." She stopped talking long enough to take a few bites of her mangled eggs.

"Chuck? Are you…feeling okay?" Eric took advantage of the pause in the conversation to ask.

"Mrmm?" Chuck looked up from his espresso to see Eric regarding him with an expression of concern—not that Eric really had any other expression. "I'm fine."

"Seriously, Chuck, what's up?" Serena added through a mouthful of food. She was now ripping a croissant into shreds and tossing them onto her plate. "You've barely said a word since you got here."

"Well, _sis_, I haven't really had the chance," Chuck said in a wry voice, looking at his stepsister.

It was a funny thing, his relationship with Serena van der Woodsen. When he was fourteen years old, he'd had a raging hard-on for her just like every other guy at St. Jude's. With those legs that went on for miles and miles, that tan skin, dazzling smile and crazy crescendo of blond hair, she had been an object of desire for every heterosexual male on the Upper East Side.

But now he never thought about her in that way anymore.

After his father became engaged to Lily van der Woodsen, Chuck had taken to calling Serena "sis"—not out of any real sense of affection, but because he liked loading the epithet with every ounce of perversity that he could muster and seeing how much he could possibly annoy her. But, out of habit, he had continued calling her "sis" long after that had ceased to be his goal, and now, to his surprise, the term actually described their relationship better than any other word he could think of.

"Let's face it—your point-by-point character assassination of Humphrey has dominated the conversation thus far," Chuck went on. "Not that I mind. You know I'm not exactly the biggest fan of your former paramour. So, please. Continue."

He took a sip of his by-now lukewarm espresso, and looked up to see Eric's wide brown eyes were regarding him steadily.

_Oh, no._ _Here it comes_, he thought. His maddeningly empathetic stepbrother just couldn't resist turning nearly every single brunch into sharing-and-caring hour at the van der Woodsens.

"Um—if listening to Serena talk about Dan Humphrey is a preferred alternative to your own problems, then you really _must_ have something going on," Eric said in an alarmed tone. "What's wrong, Chuck?"

"Why are you always like this?" Chuck asked with a hint of impatience. "If I listened to people talk about themselves half as much as you do I would have died of boredom by now."

Eric let out a gentle laugh. "You know, I decided I'm going to major in psych at Sarah Lawrence. I'm going to be a therapist. So I could always use more practice."

"Does that mean you're going to start charging?"

"I wish," Eric said with a sigh. "But until I get my license, I'm stuck working _pro bono_."

"Chuck, does this have something to do with Blair?" Serena interrupted, tossing her eggs with her fork. She flicked her gray eyes up at him in a knowing way.

Chuck looked at his stepsister and exhaled through his nostrils. For some reason, Serena could always tell when he was on the outs with Blair. In this regard her emotional radar was incredibly accurate.

"Okay_, fine_." He made a hapless gesture with his hands. "Blair and I had a fight."

"Is she seriously still going on about those defective Louboutins you bought her?" Serena asked in exasperation. "I thought she got that heel repaired last week."

"She did, and no. It was a real fight, this time."

He ran his hand over his face and laid his palm against his mouth, as if to keep himself from saying anything more. Because he didn't want to say anything more, truth be told.

He didn't even want to think about Blair right now.

Serena's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What'd you do, Chuck?" she asked.

"What did _I_ do?" Chuck replied, incredulous. "Jesus, Serena. Why does everyone always assume that _I'm _the one to blame? You know something? I'm not the only one who screws up. Other people make mistakes too. Including your BFF _Blair_!"

He shoved his chair back from the table and started to rise from his seat.

Serena immediately held out her hand in a gesture of appeasement. "Chuck, I'm _sorry_," she said.

"Yeah, sure you are," Chuck said, still angry. He began to clasp his watch back onto his wrist in preparation to go.

"Chuck, come on," Serena said in a plaintive voice. "If there's one thing I know about, it's what it's like to have people think the absolute worst of you."

She looked at him in that guileless way of hers, and Chuck felt his expression begin to soften.

"I really am sorry," she continued. "So sit down—_please_. And if you want to talk about it we're here for you."

"Seriously, Chuck. What happened?" Eric asked in his most pacifying voice.

Chuck let out a deep breath and settled back into his seat.

"We went to a gala last night, and Blair ran into…some guy from her sexual past," he said, and rubbed at the pain in his forehead.

Serena's eyebrows fluttered in a confused way. "Who?" she asked.

"You don't know him."

"Chuck, I know everybody on the Upper East Side. What's his name?"

"Well, this guy is _nobody_, Serena," Chuck said. "He's just some Joe Schmo she picked up in a bar a few months ago."

"Blair picked up a guy at a _bar_?" Serena made no attempt to hide her surprise. "And he's not, like…a prince? Not even a duke? Just…some guy?"

Chuck didn't answer.

_Wow_," Serena added in a small voice, and sipped at her mimosa.

"Anyways," Chuck said, "they were getting a little too cozy on the dance floor. And when I confronted her about it, she told me that they had a history. And then…well."

Serena and Eric just waited for him to continue.

"I told her we had to go," he went on, reluctantly, "and in the limo she mentioned that she still had his number in her phone, and…I kind of wrestled her for it and deleted it. And she got pissed off and stormed out into the street. The end.

"And…there may have also been an incident where the guy followed us into the lobby of the building and I made a veiled threat to have him killed," he added darkly.

"Oh, Chuck." Serena sighed.

"And now I don't know what to do," he admitted. Almost involuntarily he glanced around the room; by this point he was longing for something a bit stronger than a mimosa to drink.

"Well…" Serena hesitated for a second. "Look, Chuck, don't be mad at me for suggesting this, but…have you maybe considered that apologizing might be the easiest way to clear this up?"

"You think that…_I _should apologize? Serena, look—you didn't see her with him. His hands were all over her, and she was just…letting it happen. Like I wasn't even there. Like she wasn't my girlfriend. Like I meant _nothing_ to her."

Even thinking about it now was causing him to experience the same frenzy of emotion that had attacked him as soon as he saw Blair dancing with the other man. Anger, yes. Jealousy, to be sure.

Underneath these externally manifested emotions, though, were two far more powerful ones.

A paralyzing fear of losing Blair during what might very well be his last shot at a relationship with her. And a crushing sensation in his chest that he by now knew very well indeed, having experienced it at regular intervals throughout his entire life.

The pain of having been forgotten by someone he loved.

"It was…_upsetting_," he finished in a thick voice. "To say the very least." He took a sip of water to clear his throat.

"Do you think Blair knows how much she upset you?" Eric asked.

"_Yes_," Chuck said adamantly. "Well. She knows that I was jealous," he hedged, his voice growing less ensured by the second. "And angry. Mostly angry…" he trailed off, now feeling legitimately confused as to whether Blair really knew how she'd made him feel or not.

At that moment his phone buzzed in his pocket and he fished it out eagerly. But when he turned it over an expression of disappointment registered on his face.

"Not Blair?" Eric asked.

"No, it's a text from Nate. Reminding me that he's leaving to go to his lacrosse tournament this week." Chuck let out a bark of a laugh. "He always gives me his return flight information after that one time he walked in on me and Blair playing Vronksy and Anna Karenina in front of the fireplace."

"See—I read that book!" Serena said with a gesture towards Eric. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. I read _books_. It's just that Dan has to be so snotty about everyth—"

"Serena, remember…we're discussing Chuck's problem right now," Eric reminded her.

Serena compressed her lips into a horizontal line. "Right. Sorry," she mumbled.

"Chuck, look—I'm sure that what Blair did hurt you," Eric continued in an even-keeled tone. "But—I really, _really_ don't doubt that she wants to make amends just as badly as you do."

"Then she should call me," Chuck muttered.

"From what you told us, it sounds like you may have overreacted a bit," Eric said in his gentle way. "I think you should just admit your fault—your _limited_ fault—and apologize. That'll open up a dialogue with Blair. And, honestly…I think that as soon as you tell her how much she hurt you, she'll apologize to you too."

Chuck was silent.

"Also…Chuck, remember that you have a tendency to wait way too long to apologize," Serena cut in. "I mean…remember a few weeks ago? After we sent out that Gossip Girl blast about _us_?" She gave him a prodding look.

"What Gossip Girl blast?" Lily said, walking into the room. "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing," Chuck and Serena said simultaneously.

The three of them exchanged vexed glances. They were all equally invested in keeping Lily from finding out about Chuck and Serena's adolescent fling, a long-kept secret that the two of them had leaked on Gossip Girl several weeks ago. Now, of course, they regarded this attempt to the inchoate relationship between Blair and Dan Humphrey—a relationship that had, as it turned out, never really existed to begin with—as a drunken, ill-advised blunder.

"Hmm. What scandalous piece of gossip are my three beautiful children trying to keep from me?" Lily asked in a sly voice, edging up to the table and crossing her arms.

"Oh, Mom. You know that you said that your life has been a lot more positive since you stopped reading Internet rumors," Serena said. "We're just trying to keep you from falling into that esteem trap again. It really is for your own good."

"_Well_!" Lily declared with an appraising stare at Serena. "I must say I'm proud to see my daughter acting so very lovely and mature."

She laid her hand affectionately on Chuck's shoulder, and he turned up to look at her, his lips pulling into a half-smile on one side of his mouth in spite of himself.

"But really, what are you three talking about?" she asked.

"Chuck and Blair had a fight," Eric suddenly said.

"Oh, _Charles_," Lily said sympathetically. "What happened?" She sat down next to him and helped herself to a mimosa from the tray beside the table.

"Blair did something that upset him," Eric began, "and—"

"I overreacted," Chuck cut in.

It was the first time he had admitted it, even to himself.

"Oh dear," Lily said in her airy voice. "Well, what does my brilliant therapist-in-the-making advise?"

"I told him to apologize, and that I thought Blair would probably follow suit," Eric said, buttering a piece of bread.

"Well. That seems like good advice to me, Charles," Lily said, turning back to him and laying her arm over his shoulder.

"I don't know," Chuck muttered.

Right now his only instinct was to hide. Not to stand there, exposed, in front of the woman who had hurt him, and admit how much he needed to hear her say that she still loved him.

_Would_ always love him. Even if he acted like a total ass sometimes.

"Darling, in relationships it's sometimes better to take the high ground, even when you don't want to," Lily cajoled. "_Especially_ when you don't want to. And really," she added with a tinge of approval, "you and Blair are so good together."

Serena nodded. "Seriously. You two—you're better now than you've ever been before. Don't let last night change that, Chuck."

Chuck looked at all three of them. "Apologize?" he said, trying to warm to the idea.

They nodded at him.

"When was the last time all three van der Woodsens cast a unanimous vote?" Chuck drawled. He picked his napkin out of his lap and tossed it onto the table. "Fine. I'll go."

"_Oo_, Chuck—" Something had just occurred to Serena. "If you're going to the penthouse, can you look and see if my Lacroix is in Blair's closet? I think she swiped it the last time she was here. And I want to pack it tonight for our trip to _Marrakesh_!" She sang out the last few syllables, beaming at Lily and Eric.

"She did swipe it," Chuck confirmed. "But she won't be at the penthouse. She'll be at the duck pond in Central Park."

He glanced at Lily.

"There's a florist over on 60th that's open on Sundays," Lily hinted with a smile. "It's barely even out of the way."

"I'm already on it." Chuck bent over Lily's shoulder and kissed her on the cheek. "Have a good time in Morocco, everyone. I'll see you when you get back next week."

"Oh, yeah, Chuck…I'll be sure to pick up that Moroccan _souvenir_ you wanted," Serena said to him with a conspiratorial wink.

"Just don't get caught going through security, _sis_," Chuck returned with a smirk.

"No worries," she replied, grinning. "We're taking the private jet." She raised her eyebrows at him and bit into a strawberry.

"_Please_ tell me you two are not joking about smuggling drugs into the United States," Lily said with a groan, glancing back and forth between Chuck and Serena's faces.

"Oh, don't worry, mom," Serena said, still chewing on the strawberry. She swallowed it and flashed Lily a bright innocent smile. "We're not joking."

She then took another bite of croissant, her mouth still curving impishly at the corners of her lips, and Eric let out a snort of laughter into his coffee cup.

Lily pivoted around, her mouth slightly open, and looked at Chuck with alarm.

"We're joking," he said, laying his hand on her shoulder.

"Oh, thank _God_," Lily said, letting her hand touch down upon Chuck's for a moment. "As if this family needs any more legal trouble. Well, goodbye, Charles. And good luck sorting things out with Blair," she added in a sincere voice.

"Bye, everyone," Chuck said. He took a few steps in the direction of the elevator, and then he hesitated for a moment. Turned back.

"Thanks," he added.

And then he set off towards the elevator at a quick clip.

**—**

"_Mack_. What's going on, man? "

"Oh, Yousef," Mack sighed into his cell phone. He was sitting at his kitchen table with his feet propped up in the opposite chair. "You are not going to believe what I did."

"Uh-oh," he heard his best friend's voice crackle into the receiver. "Last time you said that the engine nearly caught on fire before the airplane left the tarmac. What's up?"

"Remember that…girl I talked about?"

"Talked about" was an understatement. Blair had come up nearly every time he'd talked to Yousef over the past couple of months.

"The Park Avenue princess? How could I forget."

"Yeah. Well. She was at the gala last night," Mack said, tracing a circuitous path on the table with his finger.

"Seriously? You saw her? What happened?"

"Uh, well, for _starters_, I found out that she's dating the biggest asshole in all of Manhattan."

"What? Oh, come on, man. How would you even know that?"

"He's a womanizing, alcoholic billionaire. Seriously. I just googled him." Mack pulled his laptop over to him and scrolled down a results list. "There's a whole site where people go to insult him. There's another blog that just talks about what he _wore_ that day."

"Dude, I'm totally going to google him right now. What's his name?"

"Chuck Bass."

"Like the fish?

"Like the fish," he repeated.

"Oh my God...okay." He heard the sound of Yousef typing and his thumb hitting an emphatic _enter_. "Wow, a ton of pictures just popped up. I was expecting a guy in his fifties, at least. This guy looks kind of young to be a billionaire. _Whoa_. Who's that hot girl who's beside him in like every other picture?"

"That's Blair, man," Mack replied, and began to click through an image gallery that he'd already perused several times.

Chuck and Blair getting out of limos, the lights of flashing cameras illuminating their laughing faces. Chuck and Blair at society events, dressed in coordinating ensembles and holding martinis. Chuck whispering sweet nothings into Blair's ear, and Blair looking…well, happy.

Radiant, even.

Mack snapped his laptop shut.

"For real?" Yousef said in a obvious disbelief. "_That's_ your Park Avenue princess? _Man_. She is smoking—oh..."

He heard a muffled conversation taking place somewhere in the background.

"Did Amy just walk into the room?" Mack asked with a knowing smile. Amy was Yousef's wife of nine years.

"...yeah." A mostly unintelligible exchange between Yousef and Amy followed. Mack could just make out Yousef saying the words "Dude, _that's_ the girl Mack's obsessed with. Check out her boyfriend. His name is _Chuck Bass_." Then Amy said something Mack couldn't hear.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Amy says he's a snazzy dresser," his best friend reported.

"Tell her he's an asshole," he sang into the phone.

There was a pause on the other end. "She says that doesn't change the fact that he knows how a rock a cravat."

Mack made a noise through his nose.

"So—" Yousef's confidential tone told him that Amy had left the room. "You pine after this girl for months, then you finally run into her and she's got a boyfriend. You must have been pissed."

"I _was_ pissed, actually," Mack said. "Pissed and disappointed."

"Was it, like, awkward?"

"Well—at first it was awkward. And then…I did something incredibly stupid, 'Sef."

"Why? What you'd do?"

"Well, I took her for a spin on the dance floor, and I pretty much talked non-stop smack to her about her boyfriend the entire time. And then I made a pass at her right under his nose. And he, not being a total idiot, figured out what was going on, and dragged her out of the gala like a caveman dragging his cave-wife back to his caveman cave. Did I mention the fact that he's the biggest investor that DrexelCorp's got on the line right now?"

There was a pause.

"Mack."

"Yeah."

"That was really stupid."

"I know," Mack replied, rubbing his eyes with his hand.

"What were you thinking?"

"I wasn't. I was—" He let out a sigh. "I was just so angry that I finally found her again, and she was with someone. And not just someone—an _asshole_. And I just wanted her to know that there are lots of other guys out there. Guys would treat her exponentially better than he does."

"And by other guys you mean…you?"

"Pretty much," Mack muttered, rubbing his finger along the table.

"Mack—you _still_ haven't given up on this girl? Come on, man. You gave her your number months ago, and she didn't call you _once_. She's never even given you a sign that she's interested. And there are _millions_ of women living in New York. And you're a good-looking _guy_, you make really good _money_—"

"Not as much as this guy," he countered.

"All I'm saying is—you can find someone else to date. Someone available. Someone _not_ dating one of your biggest potential investors."

Mack stared for a moment into space. "I want _her_," he said stubbornly.

He heard Yousef let out an exasperated sigh into the phone.

"Yousef—she's beautiful, she's sensitive, she's witty, she's smart. She's got a backbone made of steel. She—" Mack took a breath. "She's the only woman I've met since Tez…who makes me _feel_ this way. I just—I can't deny the way I feel about her, 'Sef. I just can't."

There was a pause.

"Okay," he heard Yousef say in a resigned tone. "Fine. You want _her_. Well. If you want my advice…then you really need to change up your game."

Mack leaned forward in his chair so quickly that it squeaked. "Go on."

"First things first—you can't be putting her on the spot in the middle of a gala that she's attending with her _boyfriend_."

"Her _asshole_ boyfriend," he muttered back.

"Mack, look. You know I love you like a brother. But in all honesty—_you're_ the one who acted like an asshole. How would you feel if you were out on the town with someone you were dating and some random past hook-up of yours came up to you, talked smack about your partner and made a pass at you? It was totally disrespectful."

"What was I supposed to do?" Mack said, frustrated. "Make small talk with her about the hors d'oeuvres? I wanted her to know that I was still into her."

"You need to be bit more subtle about it, man. Don't go around making inappropriate declarations of your undying love. Just be your regular self. You know, the _nice guy_ that you actually are. Girls respond to that."

"_Yeeeah_," Mack said, rolling his eyes. "Girls, they just…_love_ nice guys." In one fluid motion he rose from his chair and began to pace around the kitchen floor.

"Dude, don't you remember how I got together with Amy? I never came out and told her that John Ellick—" (Amy's college boyfriend) "—was a jerk. I just waited for her to figure it out, and continued being my awesome self in the meantime. And eventually she came around and saw that the guy of her dreams was right there under her nose."

"You pined after Amy for _three years_, Yousef," Mack said. "I'm sorry, man, but I don't think I can wait that long."

"I'm not saying it has to be three years. But you have to be more patient. Maybe her boyfriend _is _a jerk—I don't know. I don't know the guy. But you _telling_ her that he's a jerk isn't going to make her wisen up. You need to let her figure that out on her own."

"Maybe you're right," Mack mumbled, scratching his head.

"There's no maybes about it. I have four older sisters. I know relationships. And I know _women_ in relationships. What I'm giving you right now is pure gold."

"Well, what should I do _now_? I mean, it's not like we left things in a good place last night."

"First off, you should apologize for acting the way you did. And if her boyfriend _is_ as big of a jerk as you say, then maybe you'll start looking like a pretty good alternative."

That actually did sound like a pretty reasonable plan, he realized.

"But you can't push it," Yousef went on. "If you want a real shot with her, you have to back off, and let her come to you."

"You may have something there," Mack conceded. "But you're forgetting that there's one small hitch. I have no way of contacting her."

"Oh yeah…she didn't give you _her_ number. Huh. Well…do you remember where she lives? You could send her a letter. A hand-written apology works serious wonders."

"Somewhere on Park Avenue." Mack tried to rack his memory from the night he went home with Blair, but all he could see were identical apartment buildings whizzing by through the tinted window of a cab. "I don't remember the address, though."

"Well, do you know anywhere she goes regularly? You know—without her boyfriend? Like a coffee shop or something?"

Mack's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "She did mention something the night we met. Something about…whenever she's upset, she goes and feeds…_ducks_."

"At the duck pond in Central Park?" Yousef said an incredulous voice. "Where we took Teddy when we visited you? Dude, that's like one block away from your apartment. It's kismet. Get your ass over there."

"Nah," Mack scoffed. "There's…there's no way she's there right now."

"Well, probably not, but _maybe_. Just go check it out. The only thing you have to lose is time."

"What if she's not there?"

"Then find her on Facebook and send her a message or something. Who cares. But go. _Now_. And if she's there—remember, be nice."

"Okay," Mack said with a new sense of conviction. "I'll go."

He walked down the hall to his bedroom and looked at his reflection in the mirror, and quickly tucked the tail of his white collared shirt into his khakis and threaded a leather belt through its loops.

"Oh, hey—one more thing," Yousef was saying. "Amy wants me to remind you to mail back the clothes that she left at your apartment."

"Yeah, yeah," Mack said, glancing over at the clothes in the bag that was hanging on the doorknob of his closet.

"You know," Yousef went on. "The, uh, robe and the slippers and the Decemberists t-shirt. It's her favorite shirt. She really wants it back."

"Got it," Mack said.

"So you headed to that duck pond now?"

Mack gave his reflection one last appraising glance and tried vainly to smooth down a cowlick at the back of his head. "Yeah," he said.

"Hey—good luck, man."

"Love you, 'Sef. Hug Teddy for me," he said, as he walked at a brisk pace through the corridor and snatched his keys up from a side table.

"Will do. Love you too, man."

**—**

Blair Waldorf was standing in the center of the stone bridge above the duck pond in Central Park South, watching the mallards swim upon its placid surface with their mates.

She tossed a couple of breadcrumbs into the water below and regarded the ducks with a sense of growing envy. With their iridescent green hoods and azure-tipped wings, the male ducks were always dressed to impress their girlfriends. This was a state of affairs of which Blair was in undoubted approval. Also—didn't they, like, have sex once and then they were mated for life? No questions asked. No fighting afterwards. Just—together forever?

She realized she actually didn't know that much about ducks and their mating habits. Oh well, maybe she would Wikipedia it when she went home.

Still, there was no way it could be more complicated than human relationships.

She plucked her phone out of her phone and pressed a button on its surface. _No new messages_, it reported.

That effing Bass-tard.

Even the serene atmosphere of the duck pond wasn't enough to quell her anger towards Chuck today. She couldn't even begin to process his behavior last night. Nor could she fathom the fact that he hadn't even tried to apologize to her yet.

Gradually her fury from last night had given way to a dull, simmering anger that made her entire body feel hot. On edge. Volatile. She hadn't feel so out of control since the Yale debacle her senior year of high school.

Blair let out an angry breath. Plainly the duck pond had been a mistake. What she really needed was a stiff drink.

Or five.

Alcohol did have a way of simplifying things.

She tossed a few more breadcrumbs into the water and watched the ducks swim towards them and swallow them down greedily.

Once again, her thoughts involuntarily turned to Jason Mackendry, engineer extraordinaire. The only man who'd ever been capable of shaking her sexual resolve as only Chuck Bass had hitherto done.

Blair shook her head at herself. What on earth had she been _thinking_? Seriously—dancing with a one-night stand right in front of Chuck? Was it any surprise that the evening had turned out as horribly as it had?

Still, she thought_._ Those golden eyes. That smile. Those…shoulders.

Knitting her eyebrows in concentration, Blair tried to jerk herself out of _that_ train of thought for approximately the thousandth time that day. As if she and Chuck didn't have enough to work through without her indulging in a misbegotten crush.

Even if he did smell nice.

With a grunt of exasperation she dumped the entire contents of the bag of breadcrumbs in the lake. The ducks quacked in appreciation, plainly not believing their good luck, and swarmed up to the carbohydrate feast.

She was going home. She was going to take a hot bath, stuff herself silly with macarons, and try to forget about the mess that was her romantic life until Chuck finally manned up and apologized to her. Which she was sure he would do.

Well. Almost sure.

But right before she tore her gaze away from the feasting ducks, Blair heard an all-too familiar voice speak her name just a few feet behind her.

"Blair."

She froze in her tracks, adrenaline surging through her body, and felt her heart begin to knock against the inside of her sternum.

She didn't turn around. Not right away. The jumble of ambivalent emotions that was now churning inside of her chest forced her to take just a moment—just one or two deep breaths—before she turned around and said, in a voice of infinite disdain,

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Oh yeah, that's an intentional comma. It's a cliffhanger, folks.**

**Who do you want Blair to see when she turns around?**

**Yeah, I'm talking to you, person reading my story! I know you're there. Seriously, I'd love if you left me a review.**

**(PS. Much love to my beta, Maribells, who helped me push through a difficult chapter to write.)**


	6. Done Wrong

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who subscribed, left me a review, or sent me a PM after reading the last chapter! The response to this story has really been incredible.**

**While it does pull at my heartstrings to read so many impassioned pleas for Chuck to reach the duck pond first, those of you who know me predicted that I was going to go for the drama. And you were absolutely right.**

**A warning to all you C/B fans out there—I'm not going to lie, the next few chapters are going to be difficult to read. But I promise you that I'm going to pull them back together in the end. It's a "things need to get worse before they can get better" kind of thing.**

**A very special thanks goes out to my beta, Maribells, who was charitable enough to edit this chapter in spite of hating Mack with the fire of a thousand suns.**

* * *

><p>"What the hell do you think you're doing here?"<p>

Okay, well, he hadn't exactly expected her to be overjoyed to see him. In fact, he'd begun steeling himself for an icy reception as soon as he had spotted Blair standing at the stone bridge. She had been leaning over the water, her elbows against the stone wall that served as its railing, gazing at the ducks below.

Wearing a sleeveless white silk summer frock with ruffles at the hem, her hair falling over her bare shoulders in loose cascading waves, she looked nothing less than beautiful.

Even with a tempest of anger brewing in her dainty features.

Mack was opening his mouth to stammer out an answer when Blair's expression suddenly shifted to a wide-eyed stare. Then, to his astonishment, she quickly bent her knees and dropped her body down to the ground.

"Get down," she said, beckoning at him.

Mack looked at her, dumbfounded.

"Get down," she repeated emphatically, shooting him a glare. "I don't want anyone to see us together."

"Wh—who's going to see us?" Mack said, his eyebrows knitting in confusion.

"I'll tell you as soon as you _get down,"_ she said, and yanked him by the hand, and Mack sank down into a catcher's squat.

From the point of view of someone standing on the ground beside the duck pond, they were now obscured behind the thick stone wall that served as the rail of the bridge.

"Blair...who are we hiding from?" he asked in a half-whisper.

"Anyone and _everyone_ with a camera. Which means everyone with a cell phone. Which means every single person in a hundred foot range," Blair replied in a surly voice. "I cannot _believe_ you came up to me in the middle of the Central Park," she continued, shaking her head. "You couldn't have picked a worse spot to approach me if you'd tried."

A thought suddenly dawned on him. "Okay...so does Chuck, like, pay people to surveil you or something?" Mack asked. "Because that's not…you know, normal."

"He doesn't have to pay anyone," Blair said. "There are more than enough people out there willing to do it for free."

"What are you talking about?"

Blair rolled her eyes. "I keep forgetting that you don't know _anything_ about _anything_. There's a website called _Gossip Girl_," she explained. "People see me and take pictures of me and send them to her. Then she posts them online with all sorts of thinly veiled insinuations and…painfully unfunny puns."

Mack let out a skeptical laugh.

"This isn't a joke, Mack!" Blair said with a scowl. "There are legions of people all over Manhattan who are perfectly happy to help Gossip Girl ruin my life. I'm never safe. Wherever I go, someone's always right around the corner holding up their cell phone, just waiting to snap a picture of me doing something incriminating."

His smile having by now faded from his face, Mack just stared at her.

"Her army is everywhere," Blair continued, looking around warily. "They track my every move. It's been going on since I was fourteen years old and it's never going to stop. At least not until I end up in a mental hospital or something."

"Blair—" Mack cut her off. Then he hesitated, trying to think of a way to formulate his next sentence. "You're—you're trying to tell me...you think that there's like…this huge conspiracy…of people out to get you?"

He could only imagine what Yousef would have to say about this. Millions of women in Manhattan and he had fallen for one on the verge of fullblown paranoid schizophrenia.

"Not just _me_, Mack," Blair said, rolling her eyes. "Anyone who's _anyone_ on the Upper East Side has made a cameo on Gossip Girl at some point. But I'm one of the headlining acts. And the last thing I need is for her to send out a blast titled 'Blair Waldorf at duck pond with mystery man!'"

"Okay, so people...like to spread gossip about you online. Maybe there's something to what you're saying. Still...is it really necessary for us to make like we're in trench warfare just to have a five-minute conversation with each other?" He gestured at the stone wall that obscured them from the ground.

"_Yes_," Blair said.

"I'm standing up," Mack said, unconvinced.

Blair made an exasperated noise. "Fine. Go ahead," she said, with a swoop of one hand. "I mean, it's not like anyone knows who _you _are. Or cares."

Frowning at this, Mack rose to his feet.

"Check and see if anyone is looking in our direction," Blair ordered him. "Like—anyone who looks like they're waiting for me to pop me back up. _Especially_ anyone holding a cell phone."

"Blair, I seriously doubt that anyone is trying to—" Mack's eyes fell upon a dark-haired man in a dapper summer suit standing next to the duck pond below, holding a little bouquet of pink flowers in his right hand.

The man turned his head, a pained expression on his face, and began to shift his gaze towards the direction of the bridge.

It was Chuck Bass.

Mack immediately dropped back down out of sight behind the wall.

"What was that? What did you just see?" Blair asked in a panicked voice, seeing the startled look on his face.

Mack swiveled his head to look at her. "Ahh..." he began to say.

She raised her eyebrows at him inquiringly.

Mack regarded Blair for the space of a moment. Her pretty face was slightly puffy around the eyes, like she'd recently been on a crying jag.

Suddenly, it became clear to him that the scene in the lobby hadn't ended the Chuck-and-Blair show last night. He could only imagine the fight that must have ensued after the unhappy couple had left the gala.

That must be why Chuck was carrying a bouquet. And looking...penitent.

Okay. He had plainly interrupted a reconcilation of some kind.

Crap. What was he supposed to do now?

Well, he reasoned, if he _were_ to tell Blair that Chuck was here right now, she would probably agree that it would be best for them to remain hidden until he went away. After al, she was worried about Chuck finding out that they were here together, wasn't she?

But then after the coast was clear she would undoubtedly go run off to find him. And then Chuck would give her that little bouquet of flowers and say that he was oh-so-sorry for being a jerk and Blair would forgive him and any hope that he ever had of sweeping her off her feet would be gone.

Mack did not like this idea one bit.

On the other hand, he wasn't a liar by nature—he abhorred liars, truth be told—and something about hiding the fact that Chuck was there just didn't sit right with him.

Suddenly, a memory from last night flashed in his mind's eye—Chuck glaring at him with the intensity of a supernova, spitting out the words, "You don't talk to her, you don't see her, you don't pass her on the _fucking street_, or I swear to God you will regret the day you ever crossed Chuck Bass."

Yeah. On the other hand, Blair's boyfriend was a controlling, selfish asshole.

On the other hand...wait a second, there was no other hand. Was he seriously considering helping _Chuck Bass_ to make up with the girl that _he_ wanted?

Fuck that. He was a man, not a saint.

"Ahh….there was...a teenage girl…holding an iPhone," Mack heard himself say to Blair. "She was looking up at the bridge. And…she _did _look like she might be…out to get someone."

"Ugh, teenage girls!" Blair groaned. "They're the worst Gossip Girl devotees. I had one practically stalking me at one point."

She put her face in her hands for a second, and then she looked up and took in a quick breath. "Okay," she exhaled. "New gameplan. Five minutes from now, you pop up and do another look-see. If the coast is clear, I go that way." She pointed to the right. "You wait ten, and then you make a bee-line in the opposite direction. And then never, ever, ever approach me in a public place again."

A couple pushing a bassinet trundled over the bridge, eyeing Mack and Blair suspiciously.

Mack gave them a little wave.

"Can't you even _pretend_ that you're trying not to attract attention?" Blair hissed at him as soon as the couple was out of earshot.

"Sorry," he said quickly.

Feeling a bit embarrassed and not knowing what to say, he rose slightly on his haunches and snuck another peek over the top of the bridge.

Chuck was still standing at the water's edge, tapping the bouquet against his palm impatiently.

"She's still there," he reported to Blair. "We…should probably stay put for now."

Blair regarded him for a beat and let out a breath. "What are you even doing here, Mack? Haven't you already caused enough trouble?"

Finally. The perfect moment to do what he came here to do.

"I...wanted to apologize to you," he said.

Blair stared at him blankly.

"I was really out of line last night," Mack continued. "I was disrespectful to you and your relationship, and I put you in a really awkward position, and ...I just wanted to let you know that I'm sorry."

He looked at her. "That's it," he finished.

Had the apology gone over well? It was impossible to tell. Blair was still staring at him like he had just grown another head.

"You came here to apologize," she mumbled. "To me."

And, to his relief, there was no longer anger in her voice. Just confusion.

"Yeah," he said.

"Well...thank you," Blair said, still seeming a bit shell-shocked. She blinked a few times. "That's very...considerate of you."

They shared another moment of silence before she turned to look at him again. "Isn't this the part where you remind me that my boyfriend's a dick who doesn't deserve me?" she asked in a dry voice, cocking an eyebrow.

"Blair, the last thing you need right now is some asshole telling you what to do," Mack replied, rubbing his forehead with his hand.

As soon as the words were out of his mouth he knew they were a stroke of genius. The expression in Blair's wide brown eyes was already much softer than before. Not only that, her Cupid's-bow lips were curving upwards at the corners just slightly, in the tiniest possible tease of a smile.

"Blair—" Mack went on, getting a bit carried away by his good luck. "Do you maybe want to have...a conversation sometime? Over coffee? Someplace...not public? I mean, I don't mean someplace _private_, just...you know. Someplace not too private and not too public? Just to talk?"

God, what was he even saying?

"Mack—" The corners of Blair's mouth turned back downwards. "I don't know," she said, shaking her head slightly.

"You don't know. What does that mean, you don't know?"

"It means..." Blair regarded him for a moment, a furrow appearing in her brow, and then her face began to move in all sorts of different directions at once. "I like you, Mack. I like you too much to—" She cut herself off, and started over. "It's not a good idea," she decided in a firm voice.

"Not a good idea for you to...talk to me," he said slowly. "Like...ever again?"

Blair gave him a helpless look. "Don't make this harder than it has to be," she said.  
>"It's nothing personal. It's just...you've made my life really complicated, Mack. And—"<p>

She didn't finish the sentence, and he felt his stomach sink.

"So this is it, then?" Mack said, looking at her intently.

Blair looked into the sky and sighed. "I don't know," she said in a strained voice. "Is that girl with the iPhone still there?"

Mack rose slightly and glanced over the wall.

There was no sign of Chuck Bass at the duck pond below.

"Yeah...she's still there," he muttered.

Blair narrowed her eyes at him. Setting her hands on the top of the wall, she peeked over the top herself.

"Mack, there's no one there," she said in a sharp voice as she eased back down into a squat. "Did you seriously make that whole thing up? Just to keep me here talking to you?"

"What? No. Blair, there was totally someone down there who was out to get you. I mean...they may not be there any longer, but..."

He trailed off. Let out a little laugh. "Can you really blame me for trying to draw out my last few minutes with you?" he finished with a half-smile on his face.

Blair looked at him with gentleness in her eyes. And a hint of worry.

"I really should go, Mack," she said.

She started to say something else, but then she closed her mouth so quickly he could hear her teeth _clack_.

Mack opened his mouth to protest, but then heard Yousef's voice in his head.

_Don't push it. Let her come to you._

"Okay," he said. "Well. In spite of all the drama, and the yelling, the screaming, and the fact that Chuck Bass may have taken out a hit on me last night...I'm still glad I met you, Blair." He gave her a warm smile.

"I'm glad I met you, too," Blair murmured. "And I'm sure you don't have a hit out on you," she added. "That was just Chuck showing off."

"Well," he said, rising to his feet. "Good to know."

He stretched out his hand and helped her rise to her feet. "Goodbye, Blair," he said.

"Goodbye," she said, meeting his gaze and letting her hand rest in his for a moment. Then she drew back her hand and turned to walk away.

And then she buckled at the knee and collapsed onto the ground, letting out a sharp cry at the moment of collision.

"Whoa, Blair!" Mack exclaimed, quickly walking over and squatting down in front of her. "Are you okay?"

"_Oww_," she wailed, her face contorted with pain.

Mack looked down and saw that she had scraped her knee and her ankle—badly. Her kneecap was now crowned with a round abrasion about four inches wide, and grit from the ground was sticking in the surface of the wound. Twin rivulets of blood were snaking down her calf and running into her high-heeled shoe—or, more accurately, _no_-heeled shoe.

"Looks like the heel broke off your shoe," he told her.

"My Louboutin?" he heard Blair say in a furious voice. "Are you _kidding_ me? I just had it repaired last week!"

"Yeah, well—looks like they didn't do such a bang-up job," Mack replied.

He glanced up at her and saw to his surprise that her head was tilted back. She was staring up into the sky, breathing quickly through her nose and looking very pale.

"Am I bleeding?" she said through clenched teeth.

"Yeah," Mack said. "Pretty badly, actually."

He took his handkerchief out of his pocket. Normally he would have used it to bandage the wound, but he was wary of pushing the shards of gravel and rock that clung to surface of the scrape even further into her flesh. Instead, he tied the handkerchief around her calf just below the knee to staunch the flow of blood that was still running down her leg.

"Great," Blair said in a caustic voice. "As if the past 24 hours haven't sucked enough already."

She lowered her head to meet Mack's gaze, but she kept her eyes aloft and away from the bleeding wound on her knee.

"I can't look at blood," she explained, swallowing, as tears budded in her eyes. "It makes me faint."

"Look, uh, Blair—I seriously live like a block away," Mack said. "Why don't we just duck into my apartment real quick and get you bandaged up? Then I'll call you a cab. It shouldn't be too difficult for you to make it home, even with a busted shoe."

"No..." Blair said, shaking her hand. "That's...nice of you, but I'm fine. I'll just call—" She stopped, and blinked, and seemed to be remembering something.

"Call who?" Mack said.

Blair let out a little sigh and looked at him with wide eyes. She hesitated for a moment. "Promise you won't try anything," she said.

"What?" he said, confused.

"If I go to your apartment."

Mack looked at her with growing recognition.

"You know what I mean," she said, her eyes fixed on him.

"I won't," he said.

Blair took a breath and let it out. "Okay," she said. "Help me up?"

Mack pulled her to her feet by her hands, and she winced and wobbled as she tried to find her balance on her intact heel.

Then, to Mack's astonishment, she began to comb her dark hair forward with her fingers, so that it curtained her face. "How do I look?" she said.

"Uh. Like the little girl from _The Ring_," Mack said, somewhat unnerved by this resemblance.

"Unrecognizable, then," Blair said with a nod of approval. "Good. But if you see anyone holding up a cell phone, promise me you'll throw me into a bush or something."

"Uh, Blair," he said, encircling her waist with his arm and supporting her weight as she limped forward, "I'm...not going to do that. I think you've suffered enough for one day."

"Let's hope the Fates agree," Blair muttered.

**—**

Mack knew that his apartment was small by Upper East Side standards, but as he led the limping Blair through his doorway he couldn't help but feel a touch of pride. He knew he had a sensibility for design. The walls were painted in muted tones of green and gray, tasteful abstract compositions hung on the walls, and the furniture was modern—sleek yet sturdy—with the odd antique piece thrown in here and there to break up the effect.

It was a calming place. Walking into it, he always felt the same as he did when he cradled a cool, round stone in the palm of his hand.

The windows were open to let in the spring breeze, and the touch of wind caused the gossamer curtains to twist and flutter in the afternoon sunlight.

"Do you, uh, maybe want an aspirin or something?" he said, noting the expression on Blair's face. "You look like you're still hurting."

"Do you have anything a little...faster-acting?" Blair said in a strained voice.

"Umm..." He hesitated. "Do you want, like, a shot or something?"

"Sure," she exhaled in an impatient sort of way.

"Okay," he said, and led her into the kitchen, where he pulled out a chair from the table and guided her down into it.

Opening the stainless steel door of the freezer, he pulled out a bottle of vodka, and, after hesitating for a second, took two shot glasses from the cabinet.

"You're having one, too?" Blair asked in a curious voice as he filled the glasses to the brim.

"Well, you know what they say about drinking alone," Mack returned, and handed one over to her. "_Na Zdrowie_," he said, and clinked his glass against hers.

They threw back the shots and swallowed, wincing, and set the glasses back down onto the table.

"You know, where I'm from," Mack continued, as he plucked up the empty glasses and set them in the bottom of the metal sink, "it's illegal to buy alcohol on Sundays."

"Why?" Blair asked, as if this idea were entirely novel to her.

Mack shrugged. "I don't know. Because you're supposed to be in church, I guess."

"Do you go to church?"

Mack looked at her and let out a breath. "I used to," he said, blinking.

He and Blair regarded each other for a moment.

Mack cleared his throat. "Let's go get you cleaned up," he said. His eyes flicked down to the hem of her dress. "Oh, Blair," he said regretfully. "You've got blood on your dress."

Blair looked down at her spotted hemline, turned white as a sheet, and immediately swiveled her head to one side with her eyes clenched shut.

"Oh, _no_," she moaned. "This isn't even my dress—I swiped it from my best friend. And it's from an upcoming collection, and she hasn't even had the chance to wear it yet. She's going to kill me!"

"Cold water gets blood out of silk," he offered. "You just have to soak it for a few minutes."

Blair's eyes fluttered open. "How on earth do you know that?" she asked as if she were annoyed at him for knowing it.

Mack let out a short laugh. "I...uh, cut myself shaving at the end of a red-eye to London a couple of months ago. You know, when I was interviewing around? Anyways, I got blood on my tie, and a very..._maternal_ flight attendant helped me out."

"So you were interviewing all over the place, huh?" Blair murmured.

"Pretty much. London. Beijing. Singapore. New York."

"And New York made you the best offer?"

"No, Beijing made me the best offer," he said. "But something about New York…well, appealed to me, I guess."

There was another loaded pause.

"Look, Blair, if you want to save your dress, I can find something for you to change into," Mack said. "We can just throw it in some cold water, press out the moisture and hang it up by the window. It's such light material that it probably wouldn't take long to dry."

Blair stared at him for a second.

"I've been here for a grand total of five minutes," she said, "and you're seriously already trying to get me out of my clothes?"

Mack felt the blood rush into his face. "I—uh—" he stammered, suddenly feeling very stupid.

Then Blair let out a sudden snort of laughter. "Oh my God," she said, shaking her head at him and smiling. "Wow. You just turned red as a tomato."

Mack laid a hand over his face, as relief surged into him and co-mingled with embarrassment. "Uh, Blair, I'm sorry—I really didn't—I just wasn't thinking," he admitted.

"You're kind of a dork sometimes, aren't you?" she asked.

"You just now figured that out?" he returned with a smile.

Blair looked at him for a moment, a hint of indulgence in her eyes.

"Okay," she said, with a shrug of her shoulders. "I mean, who am I to deny a man who wants to do my laundry? But there's no way I'm changing into your ratty old gym clothes, I'm warning you now," she added with a pointed glare.

"I think I have something lying around that might work," Mack mumbled, scratching the back of his head.

**—**

The knowledge that Blair was undressing in his bedroom was more than a little distracting. Still, as Mack hung the damp dress in front of the open window in the kitchen, he reminded himself that he had made a promise to her.

"_Promise me you won't try anything."_

"_I won't_," he had said. And he had meant it.

But, a few minutes later, as she sat on the edge of his bathtub in that flimsy cotton robe that Amy had left at his apartment, and he set his hand behind her leg right into that hot fleshy cleft at the back of her knee, he could barely repress a groan.

God, her skin was like silk.

Gritting his teeth, Mack checked the temperature of the running water on the back of his hand and began to rinse the blood and grit off of Blair's knee and ankle with the shower nozzle.

At the moment the water hit her skin she hissed through her teeth in pain, and, wobbling a bit on her narrow perch, laid her hand against the place where his shoulder met his neck to steady herself.

Involuntarily his eyes shot upwards to meet hers.

Blair immediately drew back her hand as if she'd been burned, and he cleared his throat and returned his attention to her knee.

"Is—is the blood...almost gone?" she said in an unsteady voice.

"Uhh...pretty much," Mack heard himself say, as he wiped the last of the faint crimson streaks off her leg with a clean white cloth. "You'll be all set in just another minute."

Tossing the towel aside, he turned off the water, and, letting the nozzle rest at the bottom of the tube, picked up a brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

"This is going to sting," he warned her, unscrewing the cap.

Blair nodded. "Okay," she said, plainly steeling herself.

Mack poured the liquid on the exposed flesh of her knee and heard her let out a whimper. He set down the bottle again, and, pulling her leg up towards his mouth, began to blow a steady stream of air onto the bubbles fizzing on the surface of the wound.

"Wh—what are you doing?" she asked, startled, and tried to jerk her knee away from him, but he held her leg tight and blew against her knee again.

"It takes away the sting," he said, in the voice of someone saying something obvious. "What—you mean to tell me that when you were a kid and you scraped your knee on the playground, your mom never did that?" he asked in a skeptical voice.

Blair shook her head at him.

"Huh," Mack said in a tone of surprise. "I thought that was like—something everyone's mom did."

"If you knew my mother, trust me, you wouldn't be surprised," Blair returned in a bitter voice. "If I were bleeding out an artery she would probably just yell at me for ruining my new outfit."

Mack repeated the operation on her ankle, and then screwed the cap back onto the hydrogen peroxide.

"Well, I think your dress will be none the worse for wear," he reassured her, picking up a tube of Neosporin and unscrewing the cap. "Can't say the same about your shoe, though," he added.

"Or my knee," Blair said woefully.

Mack squirted out a dab of the ointment and rubbed it over her scrapes. Blair flinched.

"Well, you know," he said, as he set a square of gauze over her knee and wound an elastic bandage around it, "I think you just…might…_survive_."

He added a Band-Aid on her ankle, and then looked up at her with a smile.

"All set?" Blair said in a tone of disbelief.

"All set."

Blair looked down at her knee. She bent it, straightened it out, and bent it again.

She looked at him. "Thank you," she said in a sincere voice.

"No problem," he said, rising to his feet and taking her by the hand. "Now...upsy-daisy."

Blair wobbled to her feet and, setting her other hand on his shoulder, stepped out of the tub—but on the way down to the tiled floor she lost her balance, and grabbed onto the front of his shirt to steady herself.

"Whoa, whoa," Mack said, holding her around the waist until she was standing flat on her bare feet. "Careful now."

Blair looked up at him for a second with wide eyes, her hands still clutching the cloth at the front of his shirt. He saw her lower lip tremble.

Then, before he could say another word, she had entwined her arms tightly around his waist, and set her forehead square against the center of his chest.

Something about the suddenness of the gesture told him that she was surprised by it herself.

Mack stood there for a moment in shocked silence.

_Let her come to you_, Yousef had said.

Did this count? He wasn't sure. But he was already wrapping his arms tightly around her, too, and her body was flush against his, and he could feel her heart beating so fast that it seemed like she was a small frightened animal that he had accidentally caught.

The only sounds he could hear were the "plop...plop" of the drops of water slowly falling from the faucet and the echoes of their labored breathing.

Slowly, only half-conscious of the fact that he was moving himself, he set his lips against the place where her forehead met her hairline, and imprinted her skin with a chaste kiss.

His nose pressed into her hair. It smelled of flowers. And when he licked his lips he could taste the salt of her sweat.

Almost in a trance, he raised his left hand, slow as honey, and slid it up the smooth hot pillar of her neck into her hair (his thumb caressed the soft button of her earlobe), and he lowered his head, and planted his mouth on the other side of her neck below the ear.

When he pushed his tongue into her skin, he heard her sharp intake of breath; he felt her shake under his hand.

And then he lifted his mouth towards her mouth, the skin of his cheek grazing over her neck and jaw along the way, and his lips were hovering over her lips in the infinitely suspended moment that he took to see if she would stop him before he crossed a line.

All of a sudden he was kissing her, and her mouth was opening into his, and she made a soft acquiescent noise through her nose, and he felt as though he were falling down, down into a spiraled vertigo that was impossible to escape.

Suddenly she jerked herself away from him. He looked into her eyes, and she was looking back at him, half-gasping, wide-eyed. Like they just had committed a crime together.

"Mack, we can't—" she started to say, but he was already kissing her again, and he pulled her body tight against his and dropped to his knees onto the bathroom floor.

Then she was on top of him and he was parting her legs like a rock parts a stream, and his hands slid down to the curve of her buttocks and pulled her tight against his lap, and her elbows were over his shoulders and her hands were behind his head, pulling him more deeply into that sinful kiss and the burnt-sugar taste of her small hot mouth.

And when he slid his hand between their bodies which already seemed like one body under the folds of the robe and past her panties and into _her_, into her hot wet silky flesh, and heard her let out a strangled cry, he was gone. Just gone.

Oh Jesus Mary Joseph and all the saints.

If she wanted him to stop she was going to have to tell him to stop, because he was powerless to stop himself.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Anxious to hear your thoughts, everyone. Please review!**


	7. Suffer for my Sins

**Back at the dive bar off Union Square**.

Dan Humphrey was staring at Blair Waldorf with his mouth agape. She had broken off mid-sentence, and seemed reluctant to continue.

Actually, "reluctant" was an understatement. She was _paralyzed_. She had been opening her mouth and shutting it again like a goldfish for the past thirty seconds.

He watched her summon the bartender with a frantic wave of her hand, and he approached their table and placed a second shot of vodka in front of her. She threw it down her throat, and chased it with a sharp draught of martini. Then she looked up at him, bleary-eyed, and opened her mouth to speak—but once again, words failed her.

"Well?" Dan finally said, sensing that she needed a bit of prodding to continue. "What happened then?"

"What do you think happened?" Blair said miserably.

"Uh…I don't know. You realized that what you were doing was wrong and got the hell out of there?"

He waited for her to tell him that he was right. Because he _was_ right. Blair Waldorf wasn't the type of girl to cheat. Okay, _well_….in the plotting and scheming sense of the word, sure. She was capable of nearly anything to further her own agenda. But she wasn't the type to sully a committed relationship with a sexual betrayal. That…wasn't like her. That wasn't who she was.

Blair flicked her watery eyes upwards to meet his for a second, and then returned them to the surface of the table.

"I _wish_," she replied in a very small voice.

Her chin trembled, and she wiped her eyes with the back of one hand.

"Blair…I'm sure it's not…" Dan hesitated, and then continued. "I mean—it's not like you had _sex_ with him or anything."

There was another prolonged pause.

"_Right_?" he added, now starting to feel a bit unsure.

Blair let out a pained sigh. "It's a lot like that, actually," she murmured, rubbing her face with her hand.

Dan's jaw dropped. "You had _sex_ with him?"

After her initial confession ("It was _me_. _I_ cheated on _him_") a half hour earlier, Blair had broken down for several minutes, crying noisily into a lace-lined handkerchief she had plucked from her purse. Dan had spoken to her in a consoling voice; he had told her to slow down, _calm_ down, and start at the very beginning.

She had told him the whole story. How she met Mack at a bar just a couple of days after they had overhead Chuck talking to Raina on Valentine's. How surprised she was to run into him at the gala. Their conversation on the dance floor. The ensuing fallout with Chuck. Her run-in with Mack at the duck pond the next day. But she had broken off right after he bandaged her knee and ankle, and she grabbed onto his shirt after stepping out of the bathtub.

After he had kissed her on the forehead and lowered his head for another, more passionate one.

When Blair had used the word "cheated," Dan had assumed that she had kissed someone other than Chuck. Maybe gotten a little…handsey, at the very worst. But he never would have imagined the notoriously strait-laced Blair Waldorf losing control completely.

"Blair, _Jesus_!" he exclaimed. "What the _hell_ were you thinking?"

"I _wasn't_ thinking! _Okay_?" Blair threw back at him in a choked-up voice. She ran her fingers through her unkempt hair, and began to ramble. "I—I don't know, I was just so mixed up—I was so angry at Chuck, and I'd just gotten hurt, and he was…he was just being so _nice_ to me…and I kept hearing a voice in the back of my head saying '_no, _no, this is wrong, you can't do this,' but whenever I was on the verge of saying it out loud—saying 'no, we have to stop,' he—" She wiped her nose with her handkerchief. "He just…he touched me in the exact right place, and—after a while the voice was fading and then I could barely hear it and finally I just…I let it go."

She covered her face with her hands, and spoke into the space between her palms, her words muffled and strained, "I still don't know how it happened, how I—how I could …_do_ that. I just don't know how it happened…"

"Yeah, well," Dan said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Blair, this…this is something I can't help you with."

Blair raised her face from her hands and looked up at him with devastated eyes.

"_What_?" he said, his voice sounding harsh, even to him. "What do you want me to say? Am I supposed to like, comfort you now? Tell you it's all going to be okay? You cheated on your boyfriend, Blair!"

"Since when are _you_ on Chuck's side?" Blair choked out. "Every week you find some new way to remind me how much you hate him!"

"Of course I hate him!" Dan rejoined. "But he didn't do anything to deserve _this_. I mean, I know that you scheme and plot and lie on a regular basis, but I never thought you'd do something like this to someone that you claim to love."

He shook his head several times, and let out a disbelieving noise. "What else I am supposed to say? There's no way around it. You really screwed up this time, Blair."

"I don't need to you to tell me that I screwed up, Humphrey," Blair cried through a sudden flood of tears. "I _know_ I screwed up! All right? So if you're trying to make me feel worse, don't bother! There's no way I could possibly feel any more horrible about what I did to Chuck—"

At that point her face contorted with pain and she began to sob in earnest, and her mascara trickled down her cheeks in jagged black lines.

"All you do is judge people," she managed to say to him in a strangled voice, dabbing at her eyes with her soggy handkerchief. "Are you _perfect_? Haven't you ever made one single mistake?"

"Not like this one," Dan threw back automatically.

"Oh, God," Blair groaned, and started to gather her things off of the table. "I was so stupid to think you wouldn't just turn your back on me like you do on everyone else. EVERY SINGLE TIME someone does something you disapprove of!"

"Blair, what are you talking ab—"

"Jenny. Vanessa. _Serena_," Blair recited. "Do you even talk to any of them anymore? Unless you're telling them how _awful_ you think they are?"

Dan opened and shut his mouth, beginning to feel an odd sensation in his chest.

"That's what I thought," she said in a bitter voice. "I can't believe that I thought…in spite of everything…we were friends. But you're not a real friend. Not to me—not to _anybody_."

She swung her legs out of the booth and stood up to go, and Dan quickly rose to his feet and caught her in his arms.

He was half-expecting her to pepper his torso with blows. Or kick him in the shins. Or, at the very least, pull away from him with a look of disgust and say "Eww, Humphrey. Stop trying cop a feel—I'm just _not that_ _into you_."

Or maybe melt into a pillar of smoke like the Wicked Witch of the West…

Instead she folded into his body like a small child and cried against his shoulder.

Dan had never hugged Blair Waldorf before. It was a strange sensation. She felt so…small. Fragile.

"I'm sorry, Blair," he said. "I was…" He let out a sigh. "Being a dick."

"Yeah," Blair snuffled into his shoulder.

"Look, sit down," he said, and led her back into the booth. "Let's talk this through." He glided into the seat next to her and put his arm around her shoulder, and he suddenly felt more like a big brother than he had since…well, since Jenny went away.

He felt a pang of guilt. He really should call his sister. He hadn't spoken to her in months.

"Hey, it could be worse," he offered to Blair, who had once again pulled out her handkerchief and was crying into it.

"What?" she said in a choked-up voice. "_How_?"

"I…I don't know, actually," he said. "But look, Blair— (she was already starting to cry again) "—okay, so you cheated on your boyfriend. That's…pretty bad. But you know…you're twenty years old, and you still have a lot to learn about relationships, and you're going to make a mistake every now and then. And it's not like you're married or anything. And cheating, it's…hardly a capital offense. That's all I'm saying," he finished.

"So at least I didn't _kill someone_?" Blair said, the edge in her voice clearly indicating that his little speech had been underwhelming at best. "Humphrey—really. _That's _the best you can do?"

"Look, I'm just trying to say—I'm here for you," Dan modified. "So…just tell me what you want me to do."

Blair looked at him with hint of gratitude in her eyes. She took a deep breath and let it out.

"Okay. First of all, _no judging_," she warned. "I already know that what I did was wrong. I don't need you to remind me of it."

"Gotcha," Dan said. "No judging."

"I realize that it's going to be difficult for you to remain in a non-judgmental state for several minutes without spontaneously combusting," Blair added, her usual snideness somewhat impaired by a couple of sniffles. "I promise that I'll try to keep it quick. But please try not to implode."

"Okay, so—what is it exactly that you _do_ need me to do, Waldorf?" Dan said, choosing to ignore her last remark.

"Damage control," she returned with a sense of conviction.

"Okay." He nodded his head, staring straight ahead as if accepting his mission. Then he caught the eye of the bartender and waved him over, gesturing for another pint.

"So." He turned his head to look at Blair, who was still tucked securely under his arm. "What kind of damage are we looking at?"

**—**

Lying down on her stomach, her head resting against Mack's chest, Blair stared into space. Underneath her ear, she heard his heart beat; she felt the rise and fall of his ribcage as he breathed in an easy, lazy rhythm.

His finger was idly tracing up and down the line of her spine.

She couldn't figure out how to feel. But the ripple of nausea in the pit of her stomach wouldn't go away, and when Mack's hand slid down over the small of her back to cup her bottom, she jerked herself away from him.

All of a sudden his body seemed abhorrently alien to her.

"Blair, what is it? You all right?" he murmured, trying to touch her face.

She tilted her head back, just out of his reach. "I—I don't know," she said.

"Hey," Mack said in a gentle voice. "You…want anything? Can I bring you a glass of water?"

"Yeah," she heard herself say.

Mack swung his feet over the side of the bed, and, pulling on his boxers, walked out of the room.

Blair closed her eyes and let out a pained sigh. She pulled the sheet up to her chest and wound it around her body.

She was more confused than she could ever remember feeling, and the storm of ambivalent emotions that were swirling inside of her showed no signs of subsiding.

She had cheated on her boyfriend. Cheated on Chuck.

She felt sick with herself.

Mack reentered the room with a glass of water in one hand and the white dress in the other.

"Here you go," he said. "Your dress is still a little damp at the hem, but…"

She took the glass and drank from it quickly, and he laid the dress down next to her on the bed.

There was a moment of awkward silence.

"Uh, whenever you're ready," he said, "I'll be in the kitchen, okay?"

Blair nodded. He left the room again, closing the door behind him, and she immediately stood up and began to pace around the bed, scouting for her bra and panties.

She had never done anything like this before, she thought. Well, that wasn't strictly true, another voice in her head interjected. She'd kissed Chuck when she was with James—err, Marcus.

She could still remember feeling Chuck's lips move underneath hers in the darkness, realizing it was _him_—and then leaning in to deepen the kiss.

But—that was only because she really wanted to be with Chuck at the time.

Did that mean that...she really wanted to be with Mack?

Blair gave her head a little shake as she pinned her bra in the back.

She liked him. She was _attracted_ to him. And he had a real knack for showing up at the exact right moment. But she wasn't sure there was more to it than that.

Foot-by-foot, she stepped into her underwear, and she slid into her (well, _Serena's_) dress and zipped it up along its hidden side-seam. She was dreading what she would say to Mack when she walked into the kitchen, but that was nothing compared to how she felt about the prospect of looking Chuck in the eyes again.

Blair decided to shove _that_ thought out of her mind for the time being—the present situation was more than enough for her to deal with right now. So she took a deep breath, opened the bedroom door, and plodded down the corridor on her bare feet, limping only slightly.

"Hey," she said, as she entered the kitchen, approaching Mack from behind. He was standing by the counter, assembling something on a cutting board.

"Hey," he returned over his shoulder. "I'm making a sandwich—you want one?"

"No thanks," Blair said, feeling another surge of nausea at the thought of food.

She eyed his refrigerator. Pinned to it with magnets was a piece of paper dotted with a child's messy multicolored handprints. And a picture of Mack, holding a laughing little girl with black ringlets and dark eyes.

"Do you have a _kid_?" she asked with some alarm.

"Ah, no," Mack laughed, spreading mayonnaise on a piece of bread with a butter knife. "That's my goddaughter, Teddy. Short for Theodora."

"That's a nice name," Blair murmured, relieved. She sat down in one of the chairs by the kitchen table.

"Thanks," Mack said, wiping the knife clean and setting it back down on the counter. "It was one of my picks."

He turned around to face her and let out a deep breath. "So," he said, leaning back with his elbows resting on top of the counter.

"So."

"Blair, I—look, I know you must be feeling a little mixed up," he started.

"'Mixed up' doesn't even begin to cover it," Blair said.

"I know this situation is…_confusing_. I mean, I'm confused _too_," he admitted. "But what I wanted to say to you was—we…well, we're obviously attracted to each other physically. And…we might have an emotional connection as well. But we've rushed into things, and a real relationship takes time, and…I wanted to tell you that if you're up for it, I'd really like the chance to get to know you better."

Blair nervously twisted her hair into a coil with her hands.

"You don't have to say anything right now," he added in a gentler tone. "Just think about it. And…when you figure it out, give me a call. All right?"

"I can't," she replied in a dull voice. "Chuck deleted your number from my phone."

Mack let out a laugh. "Of course he did. You—you want me to give it to you again?"

"Sure," Blair muttered, and, grabbing her purse from the table, pulled out her phone.

She already knew what her decision was. _This was a mistake. It's not going to happen again. _But that was a conversation that would be much easier over the phone.

When she turned it over in her hand she saw that she had two new text messages. With a furrow appearing between her brows, she clicked to read them.

First message. Chuck.

**B—Wanted to apologize in person. Went to look for you at duck pond. The ducks look fat and happy so I guess I must have missed you.**

Second message. Chuck.

**I'm sorry. I love you. Let's sort this out together–C**

Blair felt her heart sink down several inches. With a growing sense of dread, she checked the time stamps on the texts. Sure enough, Chuck had sent them right around the time that she was standing on the bridge.

With Mack.

"Blair, are you listening to me?" she suddenly heard Mack say.

She lifted her head to look at him, vaguely conscious that he'd been reciting numbers at her during the past few seconds.

"I said, two, zero, six—" Mack went on, but she cut him off.

"Did you know that Chuck was looking for me at the duck pond?" she asked in a sharp voice.

Mack stared at her for a moment or two. "Wh-what?" he stammered. "_No_."

Blair stared back at him, the gears of her mind turning very quickly. "You're lying," she realized. "Why would _you_ hide from a teenage girl with an iPhone? You saw Chuck. That's why you dropped back down behind the wall."

Mack pushed his tongue into the inside of one cheek and looked down at the floor for a beat. Then he exhaled, held up his hands in a guilty gesture, and opened his mouth to say something, but Blair cut him off.

"You saw him and you lied to me about it," she repeated, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Blair, all I wanted was the chance to apologize to you first," he started to explain.

"Before _he_ did, you mean," she replied, a flash of anger clouding her features.

"Yeah, _before he did_,_"_ Mack said, starting to sound a little upset himself. "Because I knew that I sure as hell wasn't going to have the chance to apologize afterwards."

"Or get in my pants again, for that matter," she retorted sharply.

"Oh, come on, Blair," Mack said in an annoyed voice. "You know I had no intention of seducing you when I brought you up here. It just _happened_. Hell, if anyone started us down that path, it was you, grabbing at me like that…"

"Oh, so _I'm_ the seducer now?" Blair said, enraged. "What about you? Who are are _you, _Mack?"

"What do you mean, _who am I_?" Mack said, baffled.

"You've been playing me this entire time," she declared, tears starting to brim in her eyes. "Pretending like you're just some super fantastic normal guy. Pushing your advantage during the moments when I'm weak. That's _your_ game."

"I don't have a _game_!" he insisted.

"Yes you do!" Blair insisted back. "You're the nice guy, the regular guy," she went on in a mocking, singsong voice. "With the tragic back-story, and the dead wife—"

"What the _fuck_, Blair!" Mack yelled at her in a fit of temper. "I have a dead wife because my wife is _dead_. Not because I needed some sob story to help me pick up girls at bars!"

He paced back and forth a few steps and ran his hand over his face, shaking his head incredulously.

"You know, _you_—" (he pointed at her) "—you're just so used to being manipulated that you think that everything that everyone does is like, some calculated plan. It's not. I just _liked_ you and thought that you liked me back. It really is as simple as that."

"You knew that my boyfriend was going to make things right with me and you wanted to keep me away from him," Blair half-shouted through her tears. "If that's not calculated, I don't know what is!"

"_Yeah_," Mack said sarcastically. "Blair—_sure_. He would have apologized. And he would have handed you that little bouquet and then maybe later on he would have given you some expensive sparkly present and you would have rushed right back into his arms. But do you really think _that_ would have 'made things right'? That all of your problems would have just disappeared as soon as he said 'I'm sorry' and you two started making out?"

Blair just stared at him, breathing in little hard pants through her mouth. The nauseous feeling in her stomach was growing worse and worse.

"Look, I have no idea how you really feel about this guy," Mack went on. "But it's obvious that you don't want to be with him anymore."

"How can you even say that?" Blair squawked. "How do _you_ know what I want?"

"Uh, because you just had sex with _me_?" he returned. "_Twice_?"

"The only reason I did it the second time was to avoid talking to you for another fifteen minutes," she replied with as much loathing as she could muster.

Mack let out a coarse little laugh. "Okay, now, Blair—we both know it was a _lot _longer than fifteen minutes. And you were there with me. Every step of the way."

"That's a mistake I won't be making again, trust me," she threw back at him in an acid-edged voice, and, rising to her feet, she zipped her phone into her purse and slung it over her shoulder.

"What, are you going to run back to Chuck now?" he said in disbelief. "Pretend like this never happened?"

"Why?" Blair asked pointedly. "Are _you_ planning on telling him if I don't?"

"Uh—_no_. Far be it from me to break up your perfect, loving, _completely _monogamous relationship."

"Good," she spat out at him. "Then I think we can agree that there's no need for us to communicate ever again."

"Blair, come on," Mack said in an exasperated voice. "Don't shut me out because of what happened today. This—_us_—" (he gestured at an invisible line connecting their bodies) "—it's not the _cause_ of your problems. It's a _symptom_. You're not happy with Chuck, and you're looking for a way out. I just happened to be the first one to come along."

"_God_, don't you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk!" she shouted at him. "You are no longer a part of my life! Deal with _that_ on your own time."

She had forgotten that she wasn't wearing any shoes. At this point, though, it didn't matter to her anymore—she was already halfway down the corridor to the door.

"Blair—" she heard Mack protest behind her as she sprinted to his front door, yanked it open, and ran out into the hallway of the building. "You _know_," he called out after her, following her as she moved towards the elevator, "if you actually considered the possibility that Chuck Bass might not be the _be-all-end-all _love of your life—" (here she stepped into the elevator and turned to face him, glowering) "—then maybe you could be happy with someone else. Maybe even _me_," he finished.

He looked at her with disappointed eyes. There was a pause.

Then Blair reached over and slammed a gilded button with her fingertips, and Mack's face disappeared behind the sliding doors.

And then she half-collapsed against the wall, clutching her churning stomach, and did her best not to vomit all over the floor.

**—**

"I cannot be_lieve_ you had sex with him _twice_," Dan groaned.

"_Judging!_" Blair reminded him with a pointed glare.

"Sorry," he said, blinking several times. "_Whew_. Okay. What day was that, Sunday? So…what's been going on since then?"

Blair swallowed. "I went home," she said, "and took like, the mother of all showers. And Chuck had been calling me non-stop, but—I didn't want to talk to him. For obvious reasons. But he was so persistent that I finally texted him that I would meet him at the Empire for dinner the next day."

"Monday."

"Right," Blair said. She took in a deep breath and let it out. "I figured that would give me some time to figure out what I was going to do."

"Wh—what do you mean, what you were going to do?" Dan stammered.

Blair looked at him like he was an idiot. "Whether to tell him or not," she said in the tone of someone saying something obvious.

"Blair, you can't seriously be thinking that you're going to be able to keep this from Chuck," Dan began, realizing even as he was speaking that he was starting to sound pretty damn judgmental again.

But, oddly enough, Blair seemed to have ignored his last sentence entirely.

"I made a list," she said, sniffing a little, and pulled a crumpled piece of a paper out of her purse. She unfolded it and smoothed it down on the surface of the table.

She cleared her throat. "'Tell Chuck,'" she read. "'On the Upper East Side, it's only a matter of time before things come crashing down. Might as well let him hear it from you first.'"

Dan was opening his mouth to tell her that he agreed with this completely, but Blair was already reading the first item in the opposing column. "'Don't tell Chuck: you're not planning to do it again, and no one saw you, so you might as well keep it a secret. A closely guarded—like guard-it-with-your-life type secret.'"

She paused briefly, and then slid her finger over to the left side of the page again.

"'Tell Chuck,'" she continued. "'He deserves to be told the truth. The importance of honesty in relationships, etc. etc.,'" she abbreviated, waving her hand around. "'Don't tell Chuck: what he doesn't know won't hurt him. And this would destroy him. Not to mention your relationship—it's already on shaky enough ground.'"

She quickly inhaled and exhaled, and moved her finger down to the last row on the list.

"'Tell Chuck: a confession will take away the horrible guilt that is currently tearing your insides apart.'" She swallowed, and slid her finger down to the last item. "'Don't tell Chuck: you have to suffer through the guilt alone. Also: you deserve to suffer, you selfish whore.'"

She looked up at him. "That's pretty much it. The major points, at least. But the solution was obvious—don't tell Chuck."

"Okay, uh, Blair—" Dan rubbed his face, and tried to think about how to formulate his thoughts in a non-judging way. "I get that a pros and cons list might _seem _like it offers a good solution in a moment of crisis. But you can't _organize_ your way out of this. Keeping a secret like this from Chuck is going to _kill_ you, and any chances that you have of—"

"Humphrey, _stop_," Blair interjected in an adamant voice. "It's no longer up for debate. I made my choice."

Dan let out a little groan. "Fine. So…I'm guessing that you went to see him Monday night? Well…how did it go?"

Blair sighed, tears once again welling up in her eyes.

"It was pretty much the worst experience of my entire life," she said in the most wretched voice that Dan Humphrey had ever heard.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Do you think Blair made the right decision? Should she tell Chuck or not?**

**You'll find what happens when she goes to see Chuck next time.**


	8. Heaven Help Me for the Way I Am

**A/N: Thanks for all the reviews, lovelies. Some of you accurately predicted what would happen the next time Blair talked to Chuck. Some of you are worried they aren't going to make it through this. (Spoiler alert: they are.) Just keep reading, and you'll see how it all unfolds...and if you review, you might even have a hand in the action yourself.**

* * *

><p><strong>Monday. At the Empire penthouse.<strong>

"Blair? Are you feeling all right?"

"Hrmm?" Blair jerked her head up at the sound of Chuck's voice.

They were sitting at a small table on the balcony of the Empire penthouse. Over their heads, strings of lights hung in a criss-crossed canopy; on the table, a bottle of Chablis, cradled by a bed of ice, sweated into a white towel wrapped around it.

The second course of a catered dinner from a four-star seafood restaurant—a sauté of Carolina red shrimp on a bed of baby leeks, tossed in a lime-kaffir marinade—lay on Blair's plate in an elegant, interlaced pattern. A light breeze wafted the white flowers in the vase in the center of the table setting, and the setting sun cast its warmth across her bare shoulders.

The weather, the gourmet cuisine, and the complex tang of the wine, which perfectly complemented the shellfish and curry—all of it was perfect.

At least—it _would_ have been, had Blair been able to forget her act of treachery for longer than two seconds.

"Why would you ask that?" she said in a diffident tone. Clearing her throat, she adjusted her napkin on her lap, pretending to make sure that it covered every inch of the light-blue fabric of her dress—a floor-length halter with a thin wire collar of gold.

She looked up to regard Chuck. He had dressed in a white summer suit that she had bought for him a week and half ago, and he had added a light blue shirt—one that matched the shade of her dress—and a little budded yellow flower in his lapel.

_He looks gorgeous_, she thought with a repentant twist of her heartstrings.

If only she could just go sit in his lap and tilt his face up with a gentle motion of her hands. Envelop his lips with hers. And forget about yesterday entirely.

"You haven't even touched your shrimp," Chuck said.

"I ate my salad earlier," she claimed, destroying the pattern of shrimp and leeks with a swipe of her fork.

He flicked his eyes down at her plate. "Moving things around on your plate with your fork doesn't count as eating, Blair."

"Okay, fine," she sighed. "So I don't have much of an appetite. Sue me."

Chuck peered at her, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"I think I know what's going on here," he said.

Blair's heart began to pound in her chest.

_Keep calm,_ she reminded herself. _Yesterday never happened. The Blair who cheated is gone. Eliminated. She no longer exists._

_You are non-cheating Blair._

"You know that I ate a big lunch?" she said in what she hoped was an insouciant tone. "Chuck, you really should stop bribing the new housekeepers to report every last little detail of my life. Dorota gets so frustrated when she has to give the boot to a new hire and start the interview process all over again—"

"I don't spy on you anymore, Blair," Chuck interrupted. "I have no idea what you've been eating lately. Or not eating," he added pointedly.

In response, she stabbed a shrimp with her fork, inserted it into her mouth, and chewed on it mechanically. It may as well have been Styrofoam for all the appetite it inspired in her.

She looked at Chuck with an expression that said, _There_. Because non-cheating Blair would be a little annoyed with him by this point.

Cheating Blair, however, was finding it difficult to swallow.

She coughed, and reached for her water glass.

"What I was going to say was this," Chuck continued. "I know you're still mad at me. Even though I already apologized."

"You apologized via _text_," she reminded him with a glare. "That hardly counts."

"_Fine_," Chuck said with a slight hint of exasperation. "I was planning to do this after dessert, but…well."

To her surprise he walked over to her side of the table, lowered himself into a squat and presented her with a dainty red box adorned with gold trim.

_Cartier_, she immediately realized.

She heard Mack's scornful words echo in her head. _Some expensive sparkly present._

"Chuck—" Blair began in a conflicted voice.

He undid the tiny clasp and opened it, revealing a pair of exquisite drop earrings with round diamond studs, delicate gold chains, and three circles of interlocked gold at the ends.

"…they're beautiful," she said in reluctant admiration.

One by one, he took the earrings from the box, inserted the thin gold wires into her ears, and capped them behind her earlobes.

He let his hand glide down her skin from her ear to her collarbone.

"They show off your neck," he murmured. "Which is even more beautiful."

He leaned in to kiss her neck, and to her dismay his lips met her skin in the exact same spot that Mack's mouth had so languorously caressed the day before.

She instantly recoiled from him, feeling a fresh surge of guilty nausea.

Biting his lip in apparent frustration, Chuck quickly rose to his feet, and paced a few steps away from her.

Then he took a deep breath, and returned to his seat.

He looked at her questioningly. "Not enough?" he offered with a sad smile.

"It's…it's not about the earrings, Chuck," Blair said hesitantly. She raised one of her hands and clasped the chain of an earring between her fingers. "It's…"

She came to a stop, and realized that she sounded like she was giving him a cue to apologize.

Which is exactly what non-cheating Blair would have done, so…okay.

"Blair, I was completely out of line at the gala the other night," Chuck said in a sincere tone. "Instead of taking you aside and giving you a chance to explain—" (he hesitated for a moment) "—what _happened_," he continued in a slightly strained voice, "I acted…well. Like a jealous idiot. And when I think about the scene in the limo, and the part I played in it…I'm ashamed of myself.

"You're a beautiful woman," he went on. "Guys are going to hit on you from time to time. And I need to learn how to deal with it.

"Because…I've been doing a lot of thinking, and you were right. You've never given me a reason not to trust you. And I know in my heart that you would never betray that trust."

The lump in Blair's throat swelled, and she suddenly felt as though she were about to choke.

"Because you love me," Chuck finished, and looked at her with a warm glow in his eyes.

Oh God.

Blair tried to speak a couple of times, her mouth opening and closing again, but somehow she ended up shaking her head instead.

As if another, _deeper_ part of her were protesting her plan of action. Saying there was no way she could go through with this.

She looked up at Chuck and saw that he was obviously confused by her lack of response.

"Right?" he said in a suddenly vulnerable voice.

Blair pressed her lips together to try to keep them from trembling, but her entire chin began to wobble instead, and then her eyes glossed over with tears.

She covered her face with her hand.

"Blair? What's…what's going on?" Chuck asked.

"I—Chuck—" She swallowed hard. "I did something bad," she finally managed to croak through her hand, which was still halfway obscuring her face.

"Blair," he cut in, "if this is about the gala, you don't have to apologize."

Blair eyed him in disbelief through the slots between her fingers.

"You had no idea that guy was going to be there," he went on, "and I doubt you knew that he was going to make a move on you. I'm sure you were just as surprised as I was. Okay," he conceded, "maybe you shouldn't have danced with him…but I'm sure you wouldn't have if you had known that—"

"No—Chuck," Blair interrupted, her face contorting as she mentally prepared herself for the words she was about to say. "I'm not talking about Saturday night. I'm talking about yesterday."

"Yesterday?" he said, frowning. "What happened yesterday?"

"Like I said. I did something bad." She struggled to say the words, and the next phrase came out even more high-pitched and strained. "Really, really bad."

"What are you talking about, Blair?" Chuck said in a worried tone.

"He…" (here she struggled some more) "—he came to see me. At the duck pond."

"_He_? You mean...Mackendry?"

"I told him I didn't want anything to do with him," she sputtered out, wiping an errant tear from each eye.

"Blair…that—" Chuck rubbed his mouth with his palm, plainly trying to keep his temper in check. "He's persistent, I'll give him that. But…"

He pushed a long, slow breath out of his lungs. "It's not your fault he showed up looking for you. And I'm glad you told me. And I'm glad you told him to fuck off, too," he added.

Good God. She could just stop here. And she would forever be non-cheating Blair, and Chuck would be never the wiser.

She looked up at his face, and saw that he was looking at her with pride and with love.

_If you tell him, he might never look at you that way again_, a panicked voice whispered into her ear.

_That's a risk you have to take_, said a voice of greater authority.

Blair shook her head.

"No—that's…that's not it. That's not what I need to tell you," she blurted out in a jumble. "I fell and hurt myself. And I was bleeding, and about to faint…and he…I went up to his apartment."

Chuck's eyebrows shot upwards. He took in a deep breath and exhaled through rounded lips.

"You went to his _apartment_?" he began, obviously unhappy with this information.

"He was just going to help me fix my knee," Blair said lamely.

Chuck stuck his tongue into his cheek and nodded several times.

"Okay," he said slowly, still plainly trying to process how he felt about this. "But Blair—you should have just called me. I would have been there in ten minutes. You _know_ that."

"I—I didn't know you were to going to apologize. I…was mad at you, I—God, I've thought about what I should have done like, _non-stop _since yesterday. Yes, I should have called you. I should have done anything that wasn't what I _did_," she rambled in a torrent of words.

"It's okay. You needed help and he helped you. That's—" Chuck swallowed, plainly having trouble forcing out the second "okay."

"That's not it," Blair went on miserably. "He, he fixed my knee and then…something happened."

"What do you mean, 'something happened?'" Chuck said, a furrow appearing between his eyebrows.

Blair put her face into her hands.

Chuck stared at her, an expression of realization slowly spreading across his features. "Blair…did he…do something to you?" he said in an alarmed voice.

Blair dropped her hands from her face and shook her head violently. Her eyes were clenched shut. "No," she choked out. "It was _me_. I—"

Once again, it was impossible for her to speak through the tremors that were racking her body back and forth.

"Did—" Chuck's eyes wandered up, down and over the table before refocusing on Blair's face. "Did you _kiss _him?" he finally managed to say. "Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

Blair nodded. And then shook her head.

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?" Chuck asked in angry confusion. "It's either one or the other, Blair. Did you kiss him, yes or no?"

"Yes—I kissed him," Blair forced herself to say. "No—that's not what I'm trying to tell you."

She lowered her head, unable to look him in the eye. "It's…not all that happened," she finished.

"You…" Chuck hesitated. "That's…" he hesitated again.

Then he let out a mirthless, hollow-sounding laugh.

"Blair," he said, his voice cautious and wary, "it's…I mean, it's not like…" He stopped and started again. "You didn't…"

Blair lifted her head and closed her eyes, sending twin tears running down her cheeks.

Chuck's eyes widened.

"You _did_," he said in a devastated voice.

He looked at her for a moment, incredulous. He put his hand to his chest and rubbed hard against his sternum.

Then he backed up and away from the table as if there were a poisonous creature in front of him, overturning his chair in the process.

It hit the deck with a clatter, and Blair flinched at the noise it made.

Chuck turned his back to her and walked several paces away, still holding his hand over his chest.

"Chuck," she said weakly.

He was silent.

She rose from her seat and edged towards him, but, fearful of his reaction, hesitated a few feet behind him.

"Say something," she begged, a horrible fear taking hold of her heart.

Letting out a slow ragged breath, Chuck turned his head back—barely. Blair could just make out the line of his profile.

He shook his head in a series of small movements; he bit his bottom lip.

And then he said in a rasp, "Get out."

"Wh…" Blair tried to speak, but ended up with a whimper.

"_Get out_," he repeated.

"Chuck, no, no, please," she pleaded, and grabbed at his arm, trying to get him to turn around and face her.

"Don't touch me!" he barked, yanking his arm away from her. He took another set of paces ahead, increasing the distance between them.

"I know I made a mistake," Blair babbled at his back, "a horrible, horrible mistake, but—Chuck, we have to talk. We…we have to work through this. I swear to God—I never ever…the last thing I ever wanted was to hurt you."

"You didn't just _hurt_ me, Blair," he said in a pained voice.

She was expecting anger. She could _deal_ with anger. But when he turned around to face her, she realized it was far worse.

She hadn't seen him this upset since his father died.

But now she couldn't be the one to comfort him, she realized with a plummeting sensation in her stomach. Because she was the one who _did this_.

"You've broken my heart," Chuck said, forcing the words out of a constricted larynx.

Blair let out a despairing sob and brought her hands to her face.

On the verge of tears, he repeated, in a barely audible whisper, "You've broken my heart."

He turned around again, laid his hand over his mouth, and gave his head another shake.

"If you don't get out I'll call security to escort you out," he choked out, his voice breaking on the last few words.

Then he quickly walked off the balcony, leaving Blair alone.

**—**

"Oh," Dan said. "Wow."

Blair put her elbow on the table and laid the side of her head in her hand. All of a sudden she looked very tired.

"He's blocked my number on his phone," she explained. "He won't let me up to see him. I tried twice. The second time…as soon as I walked into the lobby, two security guards came up to me and requested that I leave the premises immediately." She let out a harsh little laugh. "It was…more than a little humiliating."

"I'm surprised you haven't staked out the Empire yet," Dan ventured.

"I would have—believe me," Blair said in a weary voice. "But he hasn't left the penthouse all week. There haven't been any Gossip Girl sightings of Chuck Bass since Monday afternoon."

"I'm sure he's just been drowning his sorrows in a glass of Scotch," Dan said, trying to be reassuring.

"More like a _forty_ of Scotch," Blair rejoined, taking a sip of her own drink. "You know he's hardly a moderate drinker when he's emotionally distressed."

She paused for a moment, and looked up at him with soft plaintive eyes.

"Dan—I'm worried about him. I need you to go see him. Make sure he's okay. And tell him…"

She swallowed, and tried to keep her voice from cracking. "Tell him how much I love him. And—how sorry I am."

"Uhh…Blair—" Dan hesitated for a moment. "Somehow, I—uh, I really don't think _I'm_ the one you should be sending as an emissary to Chuck Bass."

"Who else am I going to send?" Blair replied with a hint of frustration.

"Well, Serena comes to mind. Considering that he doesn't _hate_ her."

Blair rolled her eyes. "She's in Marrakesh this week, remember?"

"I forgot about that," Dan admitted. "Oh—" he added in a murmur. "Suddenly that text she sent makes a lot more sense…"

He cleared his throat. "Well…uh, what about Nate?" he asked.

"He's at a lacrosse tournament," Blair reminded him, obviously getting more than a little impatient. "And there's no way Chuck will let Dorota in. You're all I've got. You have to go. You…you have to help me get him back."

Dan stared at her. "You…really want him back. Blair, uh. I don't know how to say this, but…okay, I'll just say it."

He took a deep breath. "Are you sure it's not maybe just…time to let it go? I mean, look at your history together - there's always some new crisis. Maybe you haven't gotten over the last one yet."

He paused, then added _sotto voce_, "Maybe you don't _want_ to."

"Humphrey—what in God's name are you talking about?" Blair asked with a scowl.

"Just hear me out, Blair," he said with a defensive gesture. "I've been listening to you all afternoon."

She folded her arms over her chest and glared at him.

"Look—that guy Mack sounds like a jerk, all right?" Dan continued. "But he had some good points about…uh, your recent behavior. Has it—has it crossed your mind that…somewhere, deep inside of you, on some…unconscious level—you just might not want to be with Chuck anymore?"

He braced himself for a scathing reply. But, to his surprise, Blair sat for a moment in contemplative silence.

"Maybe some of what he said made sense," she finally conceded. "I _was_ upset at Chuck. Not just because of the gala…or the limo. It was a lot of things.

"I was acting out," she continued. "I know that now. But the second I realized that I might lose him for good…I—I just knew that I couldn't let that happen."

She looked up at him with a passionate intensity in her eyes. "Chuck and I belong together," she said in a tone of absolute surety. "And I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure we stay together from here on out."

"You're _twenty_, Blair," Dan said to her gently. "People don't settle down at twenty anymore—I mean, unless they're Amish or Mormon or something. It's not…normal."

"Chuck and I are far from _normal_," Blair countered.

"Well, uh. I sure as hell can't argue with that one," he muttered.

"We're _lucky_," she insisted. "By the time we were eighteen years old we both knew that we were perfectly suited to each other."

"Oh—like beans and rice, huh?"

Blair looked disgusted. "Far too proletarian. We're more like…oysters and caviar," she said with a lofty flutter of her hand.

"Who's the oysters and who's the caviar, in this…uh, distinctly unappetizing equation?"

"Okay—forget the food analogy, Humphrey!" Blair snapped. "It's not important. Chuck and I…"

She closed her eyes, and paused for a moment to collect herself.

"_We're_ important," she said in a vulnerable tone. "He's the only person who's ever loved me for exactly who I am. Not an idea of me. Not an edited version of me. Not as a substitute for someone else. Just _me_.

"He makes me stronger, not weaker. Better, not worse. And…while it's true that we've had our ups and downs…through _everything_, he's never once given up on me. And I am _not_ going to give up on him now.

"I can't lose him, Dan," she said, looking at him with a renewed insistence. "I _won't_ lose him. You have to go to him. And convince him to give me another chance."

Dan let out a slow resigned sigh.

"Okay," he said reluctantly. "Fine. I'll…help you."

At that moment an all-too-familiar chime rang out from their phones.

They stared at each other for one frozen second, and then fumbled for their cells.

The headline of the Gossip Girl blast read:

**Queen B stepping out on her man?**

Blair gasped.

Underneath the headline was a snapshot of Dan Humphrey and Blair Waldorf, sitting in their usual booth at their secret bar. And his arm was curled around their shoulder—which meant that the photo must have been taken less than twenty minutes prior.

**What on earth is Blair Waldorf doing below 42nd street? I'll tell you, boys and girls—she's at the Old-Fashioned off Union Square, having a heart-to-heart with her boyfriend's least favorite stepsibling. Are you and Dan Humphrey getting a little cozy, B? Better make sure C doesn't see!**

"Oh thank God," Blair said as soon as she finished reading the blast. She pressed a hand to her chest in relief. "It's just a rumor about you and me."

She wrinkled her nose. "Ugh," she added disgustedly. "I can't believe I just said that."

"Looks like our secret hang-out spot is no longer a secret," Dan griped.

"Well. We both knew it was only a matter of time," Blair reminded him.

She slung her purse over her shoulder and stood up.

"I'm going to go," she announced. "No need to give the lurkers around here any more of a show. You—stay here," she ordered, as soon as Dan made a motion to rise. "Wait another ten minutes or so. The last thing I need right now is for people to think we're leaving a bar together."

"Okay," he acquiesced. "I'll just—finish my drink." He gestured with his empty glass.

Blair hesitated for a moment.

"Will you go see him?" she asked, her eyes once again soft and plaintive. "Tonight?"

"Yeah," Dan said. "I'll…I promise, Blair—I'll do my best."

Blair shot him a look of gratitude that could have melted a heart of stone.

And then she traipsed out the door with her head held high, and her best society face locked firmly in place.

Dan Humphrey took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His mind began to race. He knew that he should be thinking about what he was going to say to Chuck—on the off chance that Chuck would actually let him get his foot in the Empire Penthouse door—but his thoughts kept swerving back to something that Blair had said to him much earlier.

About that nasty habit he had of turning his back on people.

He thought about Vanessa. His former best friend. He'd ignored her calls for months, but when she came back to Brooklyn, she'd fallen into his arms, and made it clear that she was more than willing to help him raise another woman's baby.

Her level of devotion had scared him, and he had seized upon any and every excuse to push her away—including her alliance with that schemer Juliet. But she really hadn't deserved all the viciousness that he'd cast her way.

Jenny. He hadn't hung out with her since she visited the city for her interview at Parsons several months ago, and they rarely called or texted nowadays. He supposed that on some level he was still reeling from her sudden transformation from a starry-eyed, self-conscious young girl into a raccoon-eyed, self-sabotaging drug dealer.

Oddly enough, out of all the things she'd done, he was most upset at her for losing her virginity to Chuck Bass. Somehow, that—well. It made her seem _tainted_ to him.

Which made no sense, because Blair had sex with Chuck all the time, and Blair had, oddly enough, become his closest friend in recent months.

But, then again, Blair Waldorf wasn't his little sister.

His thoughts turned to Serena. Since their last fallout, they'd largely avoided each other, but he had been talking to her a little more over the past couple of weeks. They had run into each other at the van der Humphrey penthouse, and during an awkward pause she had asked him if he wanted to read the final paper that she wrote for her Romanticism class. She had gotten an A+ on it, and she was proud of it.

He hadn't been looking forward to it much, but when he sat down to read her paper he discovered that it was actually quite good. So good, in fact, that the next time he talked to Serena he had completely trashed her argument. Ignoring the essay's obvious merits, he had told her that she needed to incorporate more examples from books that he knew she hadn't read.

He had also mentioned that her professor had perhaps been grading her according to an alternative rubric. One reserved for leggy, attractive young blondes.

They had parted on angry terms.

Dan rubbed his forehead, cringing at the memory.

A few weeks ago, when Serena had told him she wanted to get back together, he had still been far too hurt to take her back. After all, the _last _time she'd told him that, she hadn't waited five minutes before flittering off to some guy who'd been actively plotting to destroy her life for the past several years.

And so he had rejected her.

But he hadn't stopped wanting her. And for the past six weeks he had been trying to convince himself that she wasn't worth wanting.

That hadn't been going so well. To say the very least.

Maybe he should start small. Call Serena. Tell her that he was a jerk for lambasting her essay. Because it really was good—certainly as good as anything that he'd ever written for an English class, if not better.

Dan scrolled down his contacts list and paused at Serena's name.

His thumb was hovering over the Send button when he suddenly became aware of a man who had walked into the bar moments earlier.

Ordinarily, he never would have noticed him. But instead of heading towards a booth or a bar stool, the man had come to an abrupt stop in the middle of the floor, a scant ten feet away from where he was sitting.

Dan looked up from his phone to regard the stranger.

He was tall and good-looking, with thick tawny hair clipped in a stylish, _GQ_ sort of way. He was wearing a fitted suit and looked like he had just come from work.

The tawny-haired man looked down at his phone, flicked his eyes up to examine Dan's face, and then looked down at his phone again.

Then he looked up again. Their eyes met.

And somehow—suddenly—Dan just _knew_.

This was the guy. The guy Blair had slept with.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thanks to Maribells for beta-ing the hell right out of the this chapter. The term "beta" doesn't even begin to cover what she's done to this little story of mine.**

**I've got lots of questions for all of you. Should Chuck take Blair back? What would you say to Mack if you were Dan? Hell, what would you say to _Chuck_?**

**And what do you think Mr. Bass has been up to for the past four days, anyways?**

**Eagerly awaiting your reviews. Till next time, kids!**


	9. Tomorrow Brings the Consequence at Hand

The tawny-haired man walked towards him, holding out his phone in front of him. He seemed to be double-checking Dan's appearance against the photo on its screen.

With every step he took, Dan's dread increased—as did the feeling that he was about to get even more involved in Blair's sordid love triangle.

"Dan Humphrey?" the man finally said, lifting his eyebrows.

"Yeah?" Dan said.

"I'm Mack," the man said, gesturing towards himself.

"Yeah, I know who you are," Dan said, not very friendlily. "Funny, you don't seem like Blair's usual type."

Mack raised his eyebrows. "If that means I'm nothing like Chuck Bass, I'll take it as a compliment," he replied.

Dan let out an involuntary laugh. "You know," he said with ironic appreciation, "the sad thing is, under ordinary circumstances, I might actually like you."

"And you don't like me," Mack returned. It was a statement, not a question.

"No, I don't," Dan said in a clipped voice. "To be honest, I think you're kind of a douchebag."

Mack regarded him for a moment. Then one corner of his mouth pulled into a strange sort of half-smile.

"Mind if I join you for a minute?" he asked, his smile quickly disappearing.

"Um, yeah, actually, I—" Dan began, but before he could finish the sentence Mack was already sitting into the booth opposite him.

"You know, this Gossip Girl thing is crazy," he said in an easygoing way, looking at the face of his phone. "I was sitting at work, in the middle of a meeting, and all of a sudden this little alert pops up on my screen. 'Blair Waldorf—spotted. Exiting a cab at Union Square.' And then, an hour later, I get this little—like, blog post thing—"

"Yeah, I know what you're talking about," Dan said shortly. "Everyone on the Upper East Side subscribes to Gossip Girl blasts. Though you're probably a bit…_older _than her usual demographic…"

"Hey, fellas," a honeyed voice said from somewhere above them.

They looked up to find a waitress lingering over their table, twirling a strand of dyed-blonde hair in one hand.

"You interested in some more drinks?" she continued.

"No, actually, I was just about to—" he attempted to say, but the other man was already interrupting him in a more authoritative voice.

"Oh, come on, _Dan_," he wheedled, infusing the name with a forced sense of familiarity. "Whaddya say to another round?"

Dan just stared at him, taken aback by his gumption.

The waitress beamed down at Mack. "Be right back," she said, and flounced off in the direction of the bar without waiting for Dan's reply.

There was a short pause.

"You know, this isn't exactly how I wanted to be spending my Friday night," Dan said testily.

"Believe me when I tell you I feel the exactly same way," Mack replied, with an edge to his voice that made Dan feel distinctly uncomfortable. "So—who are you, Dan Humphrey? Blair's other boyfriend?"

"Uh—_hardly_," Dan scoffed.

"Well, Gossip Girl certainly seems to think something's going on between you," Mack glibly returned.

"Yeah, well, Gossip Girl isn't exactly the most reliable source of information, okay?" he replied. "And in this particular instance—trust me, she's way off the mark."

There was a moment of silence, during which a look of comprehension dawned in Mack's eyes.

"Okay," he said. "So you're like, what? Her sassy gay friend?"

"Uh—_what_? **No**. I'm not gay," Dan said, flustered. "Nor am I—_sassy_. What I have—well…it's a trenchant wit…"

Mack blinked a couple of times. "You're not gay?" he said.

"_No_," Dan declared.

Mack's eyes narrowed again. "You mean to tell me you're just some random straight guy that she cuddles on occasion?" he asked. "Because you two look pretty cozy in this picture, if you ask me."

He held up his phone, but Dan rolled his eyes, trying to avoid looking at the displayed photo on the screen.

"Blair Waldorf and I…we don't—_cuddle_. Okay—look," he said, growing more and more irritated by the second. "Apparently_,_ I'm her _therapist_, which means that _I'm_ the one who has to be there for her when she's upset. Which also means that I know way more about you than I wish I did."

"Why?" Mack said in a hard-edged voice. "What did Blair say about me?"

"Well, she had a lot more to say about _Chuck_, to be honest. And how very, very much she loves him and wants to have his babies one day. So I'd stop wasting my time if I were you, and let her get back to doing just that."

At that moment, their waitress returned and set their drinks down on the table with a little flourish. "There you go, boys," she said, tilting her head to one side and smiling.

Mack immediately lifted his pint and took a deep swig of the frothy dark liquid. Then he looked up at the waitress, who was still hovering over their table as if she expected something from him.

"_Thanks_," he said with an annoyed expression.

The waitress frowned and retreated back to the bar.

"Wow, you've certainly got a way of charming the ladies, _Mack_," Dan said sarcastically. "I can't believe Blair was so eager to…I don't know, never _see_ you again."

"She wants to be with me," Mack said, looking into his glass. "She just doesn't know it yet."

Dan laughed. "Seriously? You—you're trying to out-Chuck Bass Chuck Bass. It's not going to work, man. You're way out of your league."

"Yeah? How do you know that?"

"Well, suffice it to say I know some parts of Blair Waldorf that you don't know."

"Well, I think I also know some parts of Blair Waldorf that _you_ don't know," Mack replied.

They stared at each other for a second, and then Mack let out a laugh and covered his mouth.

"Okay—I really didn't mean for that to come out the way sounded," he quickly explained.

Dan closed his eyes and gave his head a series of small shakes, as though he were erasing an Etch-a-Sketch.

"Look—" he said in disgusted voice. "As much as I…_enjoyed_ the mental pictures that you just…inadvertently inspired, I have to go. In fact—I'm going to go try to help Blair get her boyfriend back. Which just so happens to be the one thing in the world that beats out 'talking to you' in the category of 'the thing I'd least like to do on a Friday night.'"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Dan. Hold on a minute," Mack said in a voice with a threatening undertone. "I don't think you should go yet—do you? You haven't even finished your drink."

Dan froze. At the moment, he wanted nothing more than to get out of there, and but there was something about the way that Mack was looking at him that made him think it was better to hear the other man out.

"You said that she…wanted Chuck _back_," Mack continued. "So…did they break up or something?"

"Not exactly," Dan replied. "She told him about what happened with you and he hasn't spoken to her in the last few days. But they haven't broken up, as far as I know. Nor are they _going_ to, if Blair gets her way. Which is…well. Statistically likely, let's say."

"She told him what happened," Mack repeated slowly. "Huh." He thought this over for a moment or two. "Well, that makes sense," he muttered to himself.

"And now it's up to _me_ to bring about their reconciliation," Dan said, making no effort to disguise his displeasure at this situation. "Thanks a lot for _that_ one, by the way," he added grumpily. "Because all I ever wanted to do in life was bring Chuck Bass and Blair Waldorf together for one great big happily ever after."

He paused to drink from his pint, his eyebrows knitting in irritation.

Mack regarded him for a moment. "You don't like Chuck much, do you?" he finally said.

"What on earth gave you that idea?" Dan replied in an acid-laced voice.

"I don't get it," Mack said, eyeing him suspiciously. "If you don't like him, then why are you on his side?"

"I'm not on hisside," Dan retorted. "I'm on _Blair's_ side. And she wants to be with Chuck, so…" He shrugged, and raised one of his hands helplessly. "Whatever makes her happy," he finished in a huff.

"You think _Chuck Bass_ makes her happy?" Mack said incredulously. "From what I saw of their relationship, that seems highly unlikely to me."

"It doesn't matter what _I_ think," Dan insisted, openly annoyed. "It's—look, she's my friend, and I usually just try to ignore the fact that she's dating Chuck, and try not to get caught between them. Which is generally…a very bad idea," he finished.

"You speaking from personal experience?" Mack asked, his expression suddenly curious.

"Of a _very_ limited kind," Dan immediately qualified.

Mack took a couple of long, slow swallows from his pint glass, and studied Dan in a way that called to mind an anaconda swimming in a river.

"Did you make a pass at her at some point or something?" he said, setting his glass back down on the table.

"No," Dan lied. "Well. Not—_exactly_," he hedged.

"She shot you down, huh?" Mack said with a sense of sordid amusement.

"It was…more complicated than that. We reached an informed decision. Together. We have… mutual friends—not to mention a long history of disgust, scorn. Loathing—"

"She shot you down," Mack repeated in a knowing voice. "It's just that she was kind of nice to you about it."

"Okay, look, whatever," Dan said, trying to curtail this emasculating line of conversation. "Whatever happened…whatever temporary insanity seized me…trust me, it's over. I have no romantic interest in Blair Waldorf."

"You expect me to believe that?" Mack said skeptically. "A straight guy doesn't hang out with a woman who looks like Blair without _some _hope of getting lucky sooner or later."

"Look—she's my friend, okay?" Dan said angrily. "That's _it_. "

"Give me a break, Dan," Mack said, equally angry. "If she were _really_ your friend, you'd have told her to leave her boyfriend a long time ago. Or do you really think that Chuck Bass is some perfect stand-up guy?"

"You don't have to convince me of anything as far as Chuck Bass is concerned, all right?" Dan said in a combative tone. "I have no love for the guy. Trust me."

"Why? What'd he do to you?"

A few immediate answers flashed through Dan's mind. For one thing, Chuck's blatant disdain for him. And the way he had of making him feel like a boring little nobody who would always be a boring little nobody.

Still—as much as he hated Chuck Bass, which was _a lot_—he felt more loyalty towards him than this random motherfucker.

"You're missing the point," Dan said, dismissing Mack's question with a motion of one hand. "The point is—it's just…"

He searched his brain and finally settled on a familiar phrase, unable to come up with a better explanation. "They're Blair and Chuck. Chuck and Blair. You, you're meddling with the primal forces of nature. Maybe you can break them apart for a little while, but you can't _keep _them that way. They're inseparable. They're—they're meant to be together."

"Oh, what kind of crock of shit is that?" Mack said, scowling.

Dan was taken aback by this sudden outburst. "Wh-what do you m—?"

"_Meant to be together_," Mack cut him off. "No one is _meant to be together_."

Dan opened his mouth, intending to clarify what he had said, but he couldn't get in a word edgewise—Mack was on a roll.

"If you say that something is MEANT TO BE, that means that you think that someone—something—is out there _directing_ things," he continued, gesturing with his hand as if he were laying his argument down in front of him in a series of logical steps. "_Ordering_ things. God. Fate. Whatever the hell you want to call it. But there is no God. There is no fate. The universe is completely indifferent to us."

"Look," Dan managed to interject, "just because _you_ don't think—"

"You think _I_ didn't think my wife and I were _meant to be_?" Mack said, raising his voice. "That we would live to a happy old age with a little house somewhere and a garden out back and grandchildren coming around to visit every Sunday? Trust me, I _did_. But if I believe that we were _meant to be_, then I also have to believe that she was _meant _to get sick_, _and_ die_—right about the time we should have been having children, and—"

He suddenly stopped talking, and took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry," he continued at a much quieter volume. "I keep forgetting you're a kid. You haven't—you don't know about this kind of thing yet. You haven't even..._had_ to think about it."

"Hey, man," Dan said, feeling a surge of compassion in spite of himself. "I'm sorry. I didn't—it was a poor choice of words—"

"It's okay," Mack said. "What I meant to say is…we're not _meant to be_ with anyone. We _choose_. And if you met someone who you really like—you have to just…go for it. Because you have no way of knowing if you're going to have another chance tomorrow."

"Listen to me," Dan said emphatically. "Because—that's what I'm trying to tell you. Blair. She's made her choice. She just didn't choose _you_."

He watched as a crestfallen expression overtook Mack's face.

"I'm sorry," he went on. "I know you had some fantasy of showing up and sweeping her off her feet, but that's not going to happen."

Mack regarded him for a moment. "I'm not giving up," he said defiantly.

"Well, I wasn't really expecting you to," Dan said in a grim voice. "Look, man, I don't know what else to say to you. In a way, I kind of admire you, and, in a way, I kind of…well, I kind of hate you." (Mack accepted this with a curt little nod.) "But I'm speaking for Blair here, and it really didn't sound to me like she was interested in anything but getting Chuck back. Because…you—you just don't know those two. They have these crazy sparks, and then one of them does something, and they fight, and then they break up, and then they suddenly love each other again, and then they're back to hating each other, but…there's something—_there,_ that for some sick twisted reason makes them keep coming back together, and…I just don't think that there's any way to keep them apart for good. That's just my opinion on the matter," he said, raising his hands. "By no means the definitive word, but..." He trailed off.

"And you're going to try to help them keep…doing just that," Mack said in a tone that made it clear that he thought this was insanity.

"I'm going to try to help _Blair_," Dan corrected. "And if that means telling Chuck what she wants me to tell him, that's least I can do. The rest is up to Satan himself. For he is their _lord and master_," he intoned in a deep bass, trying to add a bit of levity to a touchy conversation.

Mack stared at him.

"Sorry," he excused himself lamely. "I'm guessing there's no Satan either, in your…existential worldview."

To his surprise, Mack let out a laugh. "You're kind of a funny guy, you know that?" he said.

"It's been said once or twice before," Dan replied in a wry voice.

A moment passed, during which it became clear that the two men were no longer quite as unsympathetic to each other as they had been at the beginning of their conversation.

"So you're going to go talk to Chuck Bass?" Mack said, after taking another deep draught of his pint. "Tonight?"

"Yeah, that's the…foolproof plan. What could possibly go wrong?" Dan said, with an up-and-down movement of his eyebrows that made it clear how much he was looking forward to this.

"Well. When you go to see him, I need you to tell him something for me."

"Oh, come on, Mack," Dan entreated, his expression pained. "You've already slept with his girlfriend—do you really need to add insult to injury?"

"Believe it or not, this has nothing to do with Blair," Mack said.

Dan narrowed his eyes, confused. "You, uh—want me to tell him you admire his daring sartorial choices?" he guessed.

"I want you to look over my shoulder at the other end of the bar—but try not to look like you're looking, okay?" Mack said, plainly annoyed at Dan's immediate impulse to do just that. "You see a couple guys in suits? One short and thin, the other tall and fat with a big nose? Looking like something out of the Sopranos?"

"Yeah," Dan said warily, after spotting the pair in his peripheral vision.

"Those guys have been trailing me since Tuesday morning," Mack said, "and I'm pretty sure your friend Chuck has everything to do with it."

"He's not my friend," Dan corrected. "But you're right, it does seem like something he would do," he acceded in a mumble.

"When I step out of my building tomorrow I do not want to see those guys," Mack declared, a note of warning in his voice. "Or anyone else Chuck Bass might send after me, for that matter. Tell him that. And tell him there will be consequences if he fails to do so."

"What kind of consequences?" Dan said, frowning. "Like…what are _you_ going to do to _him_? I mean, you're not exactly a rival billionaire…."

"I didn't always design commercial aircraft, okay?" Mack said. "I worked for the military for five years. I made bomber jets. Very, very efficient bomber jets. But after the war had been going on for a while, I got tired of helping the U. S. Army to blow people up in a very, very efficient manner, and I got out of the business. Went civilian. But I still have a lot of contacts at the Department of Defense. And they would be very concerned, to put it mildly, to find out that someone who possesses sensitive operational intelligence is being trailed 24/7 by a couple of suspicious goons."

"Okay, now, look. That's just…that would be misrepresenting things," Dan reasoned. "It's—it's not like Chuck is planning on kidnapping you to learn your secret jet plans."

"I don't _care_," Mack returned angrily. "He's made open threats to me and now I've got these guys following me everywhere I go. Now—I don't know if he's just trying to mess with my head, or keep me away from Blair, or if he's legitimately out to get me. But he needs to call off his guys, or he's going to be in a world of trouble that'll make all this recent drama with his girlfriend seem like a walk in the park on a sunny day. The last thing anyone wants is to be the subject of a prolonged terrorism investigation. Make sure you let him know that."

"Um. Okay. I'll—do that."

Mack stood up and took out his wallet.

"No, look," Dan interceded. "I've been here a while, and Blair was here, and she never pays for her drinks—"

"No-no-no," Mack said with a little wave of his hand, pulling out several bills. "I got it."

"Okay," Dan said. "Thanks," he added somewhat reluctantly.

Mack looked him over for a moment. "You seem like you're probably an okay guy," he said, a hint of apology in his tone. "Sorry we met under these circumstances."

"Yeah," Dan said, not knowing what else to say.

Mack turned to go. But then he paused for moment, bit his lower lip, and turned back to look at Dan one more time.

"You know—" he said, holding up one emphatic finger, "just because she wasn't willing to give him up for you doesn't mean that she won't give him up for me."

And with that, he left.

Dan set his palms flush against the surface of the table. Then he took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

What an interesting night this was turning out to be.

Maybe he could turn it into a short story someday, he suddenly thought. And a gleam of inspiration appeared in his eye…

But before he could ponder all of the narrative possibilities that lay before him, he forced himself out of his creative reverie. For the time being.

After all, he had to find out how the story ended first.

**—**

He couldn't believe it. All it took was a simple (if stammered) request to the thin-lipped woman working the front desk of the Empire, and, after a skeptical glance at the shirt he was wearing, she dialed up to the Penthouse, spoke a few words ("A Daniel Humphrey to see you, sir?"), and then, after a short pause, she nodded and told him he could go right on up.

"Elevator down the hall to the right, sir. Javier will show you the way."

"Uh…thanks," Dan said in wide-eyed disbelief.

But that was nothing compared to how he felt when the elevator reached the top floor of the building and the gleaming doors glided open to reveal…

"_Nate_," Dan blurted out, making no effort to conceal his surprise. " I…well. I wasn't expecting _you_."

He wasn't exactly pleased to see Nate, either. During their last encounter a couple of weeks ago, Nate had described a recent picnic in Central Park with Serena, during which his romantic feelings for her had—predictably enough—reemerged. In a surge of jealousy, Dan had declared that Serena was, in all likelihood, still interested in _him_, and had voiced his doubts about Nate's ability to recapture her interest.

They hadn't spoken to each other since.

"Dan. What are you doing here?" Nate said in an unmistakably hostile tone.

"I…well, as strange as it might sound, I'm here to talk to Chuck."

At that moment the elevator doors threatened to close, but Nate reached out and slammed his hand into the side of one door, sending both panels sliding back into their metal frame.

"I ought to punch you in the face right now," he growled.

"Whoa, whoa—what?" Dan stammered, and held up his hands as if he were at gunpoint. "What did _I _do? 'Cause if this is about Serena…I haven't even—"

"You think I can't figure out what's going on?" Nate spat. "I get a call that Chuck is having a total meltdown, I hop on a flight to come back, and as soon as I get off the plane I see _this_."

He held up his phone, revealing the Gossip Girl blast.

"_Dude_—what the _hell_," he said, obviously incensed. "A week ago, with the way you were talking about Serena, I figured you were still into her. Now I find out that you're sneaking around with _Blair_? What do you think you're doing?"

"No-no-no-no no-no-no-no-no," Dan said in a rapid-fire staccato. "This is…a complete misunderstanding. I have…_nothing_ going on with Blair. Trust me. I'm here to _help_ her, in fact."

To Dan's relief, the anger on Nate's face faded away. It was quickly replaced by a much more familiar expression—utter confusion.

"You're here to help _Blair_?" he said, scratching the back of his head. "So…does that mean she knows about this?"

"Wait a sec," Dan said, looking at Nate quizzically. "If Blair didn't call you, who _did_?"

Nate's expression telegraphed that he had heard the question, but—for some reason—had decided not to answer it.

"Dan…just tell me what's going on," he pleaded. "All I know is that Chuck's losing his shit over something, and I'm completely out of the loop."

"You mean—he hasn't told you?"

"I literally got back less than a minute ago," Nate explained. "I haven't even had the chance to talk to him yet."

The elevator doors began to close again, but Dan intercepted the motion with one hand and sent them sliding back.

He let out a pained sigh. "She cheated on him," he explained in a low voice.

Nate's jaw dropped. "_What_? With _who_?" he asked in a loud whisper, his features working in bafflement.

"Just…some guy."

"Some guy?" Nate blinked, trying to process this. "Jesus," he reflected.

"Yeah…and now, he—he won't see her or talk to her. I'm trying to get him to. She's…pretty upset about the whole thing, and—I really think they need to…talk things out."

Nate nodded. "Okay," he said, accepting this plan. "But, man, he's a total mess right now. I just got home a couple of minutes ago, but…"

He raised his eyebrows and whistled.

"It's pretty bad, huh?" Dan said with a grimace.

Nate looked at him, wide-eyed, and shook his head a couple of times.

"You should just come in and see for yourself," he said, backing away from the elevator doors and granting Dan entrance to the penthouse.


	10. This Day Like the Next Will Never Come

As soon as Dan stepped out of the elevator, a nasty smell hit his nostrils—a synthetic, burnt sort of odor. He held the back of his hand over his nose, and looked up at Nate with startled eyes.

"Oh," Nate said. "You get used to it pretty fast."

"Well, uh. That's a relief," Dan muttered, walking straight ahead.

The penthouse was trashed. The furniture had been overturned, and bottles and trash were scattered everywhere.

Looking ahead, Dan saw that the pane in the door to the balcony was shattered; only a few jagged chunks of glass remained clinging to the frame. A few feet beyond it, on the deck outside, lay a wooden chair with two broken legs.

He turned his head as he walked into the living area, and noticed that the sculpture in the corner was missing its head. A pile of ashes and cigarette butts rested at its base, and a thick puck of an ashtray lay upside down in its center.

Someone had wrenched the flatscreen off the wall and toppled it onto the floor.

Next to the upside-down television, he saw a crispy black patch on the carpet that seemed to be the origin of the burnt smell. He walked up to it and gave a tentative sniff, and guessed that someone had put out the fire with a bottle of red wine.

He took a few more steps forward and saw that the pool table was almost completely covered with half-empty bottles of scotch, dirty glasses, crumpled bits of rolling papers, loose tobacco, cigarette ends…and drugs. Lots and lots of drugs. There were plastic baggies containing thick clusters of weed, pills (some scattered around the table in haphazard little clusters, some in plastic prescription bottles, none of were labeled "Chuck Bass"—_that_ he was sure of), and a snowy pile of white powder on a broken chunk of mirror, divvied up into thin wobbly lines.

He looked down at the floor and saw a dried rust-colored substance that appeared to be blood. At some point, while it was still wet, someone had walked through it barefoot, swiping a sanguine path towards the bedroom.

Dan looked at Nate and exhaled in a whistle. It was worse than he'd expected.

"Yeah," Nate said in a grim voice.

At that moment, they heard a guttural strain of song rise down the hallway. It grew louder and louder, but the lyrics were half intelligible at best.

And then they saw a silhouette appear at the end of the hall.

Chuck Bass had always had a distinctive walk. He tended to sweep his feet out to the sides and then return them to center, sauntering along at a leisurely pace, as though the entire world were the deck of a luxury yacht that he owned.

Now, though, his gait was unbalanced, seasick; he staggered, as though the floor were rocking underneath him in waves.

When he stepped into the light of the room, they saw that he was barely even dressed—he wore only a stained white t-shirt and blue silk boxers. And maybe it was because his usual garb had a way of making him look much older than he really was—after all, it was a shock to see Chuck Bass in anything less than a tailored three-piece suit—but now, for the first time in years, he looked like a little boy.

His hair was a tousled mess, he hadn't shaved in days, and there was a red tinge around the rims of his eyes, which were staring ahead in a vague, unfocused way. He tottered towards the pool table, not seeming to notice them at all.

"Chuck," Nate said in a weak, half-pleading way.

Chuck looked up and regarded Nate through a tranquilized haze.

"Nathaniel," he drawled. "You're back."

He limped towards Nate, and when they looked down they saw that his right foot was bound with a taut bandage.

"What happened to your foot?" Nate asked in alarm.

Chuck looked down confusedly. "Oh. I think I…stepped in some glass…" he said, as if he were talking about an old injury that had happened years ago.

_Jesus Christ_, Dan thought, and wondered if there were any point in trying to talk to Chuck in this state. He didn't even seem to notice that he was there.

"Heya, Chuck," he said, lifting his hand in an awkward salute.

Chuck lifted his head and seemed to see Dan for the first time. Almost immediately, his eyes narrowed into angry little slits.

"What is _he_ doing here?" he asked Nate accusingly, his voice suddenly sharper. "Since when does Dan Humphrey have drop-in privileges at the penthouse?"

"Chuck, he just wants to talk to you," Nate said in a diplomatic way.

"I don't feel like _talking_," Chuck groused. "Especially not to Humphrey Dumphrey."

He surveyed the vast pharmacopoeial spread on the pool table with a pan of his head. "I just feel like…partying," he murmured, and began to limp towards the table.

"Is that all you've been doing for the past four days?" Nate asked in a hopeless voice.

"Pretty much," Chuck sighed, sweeping up a pile of pills with his palm.

"Yeah. Looks like you've been having a…_great_ time," Dan commented wryly.

"What would _you_ know about having a good time, Humphrey?" Lowering his head, Chuck regarded his stash in a contemplative way. "Let's all drop some pills," he suggested in a slow voice.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Chuck," Nate immediately returned.

"Oh come on, Nathaniel," Chuck said seductively. "Back in the day you always used to be down."

With two fingers pointed into a V, he segregated a pair of capsules from the rest. "What about you, Humphrey?" he ventured, not looking at Dan. "In the mood for some MDMA? You always have been a little lacking when it comes to _joie de vivre_. I never could figure out why you were able to hold Serena's interest for so long…"

Dan cleared his throat.

"A word of warning, though," Chuck suggested in a soft voice, and flicked his eyes over to Nate in an insinuating way. "Nathaniel has a tendency to get a little bicurious when he's rolling..."

Dan glanced at Nate_, _but Nate just flushed and averted his eyes to the floor. Thus ended the most awkward conversational pause that Dan Humphrey had ever experienced. And _that_ was saying something.

"I'm more in the mood for downers myself," Chuck said in a confidential tone. He reached forward for a decanter of scotch and filled a nearby glass to the brim, sloshing a considerable amount of alcohol onto its felted surface in the process. "Though my supply does need replenishing at the moment," he muttered, leaning over the table to drink directly from the overfilled glass.

"Chuck, we came here because we were worried about you," Dan interjected, eyeing the half-empty glass of scotch—and hoping to finish the conversation while Chuck was still capable of having one.

"_You_—were worried about _me_?" Chuck said with muted aggression. "That's not even in the realm of possibility. You don't even _like_ me."

Dan had to search for the right words.

"I'm here for Blair," he settled.

"I don't want to talk about _Blair_, Humphrey," Chuck replied with a sharp edge to his voice. He picked up the tumbler and threw the rest of the scotch down his throat in one go. "I don't even want to _think_ about her," he slurred, and reached over the table towards the decanter again.

"Okay—Chuck, I don't think you need anything more to drink right now," Nate said. He tried to snatch the scotch away from him, but the other man pushed him away clumsily with one hand.

"Don't tell me what to do, Archibald," he snapped.

He squinted at the two of them and leaned back and forth a couple of times, as if this were necessary to bring their images into clear focus. "Why are you two suddenly a tag-team, anyways?" he grumbled. "Shouldn't you be off dueling over Serena?"

"We're not fighting anymore, Chuck," Nate said. "That was…just a misunderstanding."

This was a lie—and not a very good one at that—but Dan thought it better to let it go.

"Friends shouldn't fight over girls anyways," Nate added as an afterthought.

"Oh, come on, Nathaniel," Chuck said, clearly unconvinced. "We're all gentlemen here. We can all admit that Miss van der Woodsen has her…certain charms. Can't we, Humphrey?".

Glancing at Dan, who was clenching his jaw, Nate quickly moved to change the subject. "We're not here to talk about _Serena_, Chuck."

"Oh—_right_," Chuck droned. "You want to talk about your _other_ ex-girlfriend. The one I banged before you did. Blair, I mean. After all, I'd need a spreadsheet to keep track of _all_ of them…"

"Jesus, Chuck, stop antagonizing Nate," Dan cut in angrily. "We're trying to help you out here."

"If you wanted to do that, you should have brought me some more OxyContin," Chuck said, trying to lift the lip of the decanter of scotch directly to his mouth.

Nate snatched it away. "Are you just going to drink yourself into a stupor again?" he said in reproach. "Because eventually you're going to have to sober up and deal with your problems."

"Right now the only problem I have is that you two _hens_ won't stop clucking at me," Chuck said, obviously irritated.

"No—your _problem_ is that you're on the outs with Blair," Dan corrected. "And over the past four days you've done nothing about it but get as fucked up as humanly possible. I mean, seriously—God only knows what you've been taking…and how much of it. It's a miracle you're even still _alive_."

Chuck looked at him for one standstill moment.

"Fuck off, Humphrey," he rasped, pointing at the center of Dan's chest with undisguised aggression. "Are you really going to stand there and pretend that you're worried about my _health_? We all know that you can't stand me. So why are you even here?"

Dan let out a bitter laugh. "You know, it's funny—I was just asking myself the exact same question," he admitted. "But, um..." He rubbed the space between his eyes. "Blair asked me to come here and talk to you."

"Blair asked _you_ to talk to _me_," Chuck replied in an incredulous voice. "What…fucking some other guy wasn't bad enough, so she had to send _Dan Humphrey_ here to talk to me about it? No thanks. You can go back the way you came. And I'm pretty sure that involves a subway car that smells like _piss_," he added in his nastiest tone.

"Chuck—" Nate began in a horrified voice, but Dan held up his hand.

_I'm here for Blair, I'm here for Blair, _Dan recited in his brain._ Not Chuck—Blair._

"_Chuck_," he said, trying his best to keep his voice steady and calm, "I wish that I could just do that, but I can't. I promised her that I would make sure you were okay."

"_Okay_?" Chuck parroted, scowling. "I'm not okay. I'm _great_. I'm _spectacular_. Or at least I _was_ until I ran out of pain killers. And you two losers won't even party with me.

"You should have sent over little Jenny instead," he continued, looking at Dan with a flash of wicked inspiration in his eyes. "If memory serves—now, she's a girl who's down to party when she's feeling down…"

Nate's eyes widened into perfect circles. "_Dude_. Not cool."

Meanwhile, a current of anger surged in Dan's brain and ran down his spine, electrifying his entire body.

And suddenly, instinctively, he grabbed the front of Chuck's shirt and pushed him back against the pool table, knocking several bottles and glasses to the floor in the process.

(Somewhere far away in the background he heard a muffled protest from Nate: "Whoa, whoa, Dan. _Chill_.")

"If you weren't so pathetic right now I'd beat the shit out of you," he growled at Chuck.

"Go ahead!" Chuck returned in a goading voice. "_Please_. _Hit_ me. It would break up the monotony of all this fucking _talk_."

"He's just trying to make you go away," Nate frantically explained to Dan.

"Oh—was I somehow unclear about that?" Chuck replied to Nate in an acidic tone.

He returned his gaze to Dan. "Come on, Humphrey," he urged him. "What are you waiting for? Or are you even capable of hitting someone unless you're sneaking a sucker-punch?"

Dan swallowed, gritting his teeth.

Right now the only thing keeping him from smacking his fist into Chuck's mouth was the fact that he was actively encouraging him to do it.

"Well?" Chuck said with a condescending smirk. "Come on. Let's have it. Let's go."

And at that moment Dan looked into Chuck's eyes and saw something unnerved him.

On the surface of his gaze, there was belligerence, yes. Contempt as well. But underneath it all—despair. And pain.

"Go ahead," Chuck said in a slightly less ensured voice, and fought back a tremble of his lower jaw. "I won't fight back. Beat me to a pulp."

He continued to stare at him, his eyes red-laced and desperate.

_He _wants_ me to hit him_, Dan realized. _He wants to feel anything…other than this._

He felt his fingers relax their grip onto Chuck's shirt, and he released him with a sigh, dropping his hands to his sides.

"Yeah," Chuck said in a disappointed voice. "That's about what I figured."

He turned to the pool table and began to rummage through his stash. "_Fuck_," he cursed, scattering the pills every which way with downward swing of his fist. "What I'd give for some more OxyContin right now…"

"Chuck, Blair feels terrible about what happened," Dan said in what was intended to be a consoling tone.

"Well, then, maybe she shouldn't have gone off and fucked someone else," Chuck returned with a tinge of vestigial fury.

Then, with a sudden swipe of his arm, he knocked the decanter of scotch onto the floor, where it shattered into thick chunks and tiny, needle-sharp shards of glass.

Nate shot Dan a look of disapproval, and, after glancing at Chuck's bare feet, walked down the hall towards the storage closet.

Dan sighed, realizing that his earlier instincts were correct. There was no way he was going to be able to delve into Chuck and Blair's very real issues while he was in this state. It was a better idea to do damage control—at least for the time being.

"Uh, yeah…about that," he said, shifting his gaze to the floor. "Um, Chuck, you wouldn't by any chance have hired some, uh, guys to follow that guy around—would you?"

There was a pause, during which Nate reentered the room and began to awkwardly sweep the floor. Dan observed him, blinking, and wondered if Nate had ever actually used a broom before.

"What's your point?" Chuck finally muttered.

"It's just that…uh, hold on a sec," Dan said, taking the broom from a rather sheepish-looking Nate and quickly whisking the glass into a small pile. Plucking up an unfurled magazine from underneath a ripped couch cushion, he swept it up and set it aside.

"Look," he went on. "This guy has some military contacts, and it's…a very bad idea for you to spy on him. I think he could cause some legitimate trouble for you. And that's the last thing you want to have to worry about right now. I mean, look—I know that we're not exactly each other's biggest fans, okay?" (He held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture.) "But I still wouldn't wish that on you. I wouldn't wish it on _anyone_."

Chuck was silent for a few moments. Then he pushed aside several items on the surface of the pool table, revealing a manila folder stuffed with papers.

"I just wanted to keep him away from Blair," he said in a drained voice. "So I called Andrew, and I told him to send a couple guys to trail him."

Dan edged over to the table and flipped over the cover of the folder. He filed through its contents: newspaper clippings, memorandums, bills, transcripts—and photographs.

His gaze lingered on a black-and-white 8x10. A tuxedo-ed Mack was clasping the hand of his bride, a woman with curly blonde hair and freckles. They were looking into each other's eyes, smiling, radiant with joy.

"I was hoping Andrew would find something—_anything_," Chuck explained, rubbing his eyes with both hands. "To blackmail him. But he's squeaky-clean…a complete boy scout. He came from a farming family. Went into the army to pay for college and then got a scholarship to MIT. Became a hot-shot engineer, and married his high school sweetheart…who died a few years ago, tragically. And after he got his first high-paying gig the first thing he did was to buy his mom a ranch outside El Paso."

"He's everything I never was," he went on in despair.. "A better man than I'll ever be. It's no wonder that she wants to be with him."

"That's just it, Chuck," Dan tried to interrupt. "She _doesn't_."

But Chuck didn't seem to have heard him.

"Who was I kidding?" he muttered, tugging on his hair with one hand. "I was never good enough for her. And I never will be," he continued. "I won't even get the chance to _try_."

"Whoa—buddy," Nate protested. "That's—not even true."

Chuck didn't seem to have heard Nate, either.

"_God_," he moaned, covering his face with his hands. "I am so completely fucked. She'll move on from me. But I _can't_. I just can't. Even if she tossed me aside, even if she forgot me completely, I couldn't stop loving her for a day. An _hour_.

"I have no idea what I'm going to do," he slowly said, and removed his hands from his face to reveal a pair of exhausted, bloodshot eyes.

Then his expression turned cold. "Where the fuck is Wendy with my fucking OxyContin?" he said angrily, and gave a sudden kick to the nearest leg of the pool table. It skidded a couple of inches away with a screech.

"Chuck—" Nate said in a gentle voice, and took his friend by the elbow and led him to the sofa. After making a half-hearted attempt or two to push Nate away, Chuck sank down onto the sofa's one remaining cushion, looking distraught—or, at least, Dan _guessed_ that he looked distraught, since he had once again planted his face into his hands.

"Chuck—you'll see," Nate said, as he righted the coffee table in front of the sofa and sat down on its surface. "All of this is going to turn out all right. You know Blair's not going to end up with this guy. She loves _you_. And she always will."

Chuck didn't look at Nate. He just stared straight ahead with glazed-over eyes, and shook his head a couple of times, unable to speak.

"Look," Dan said, realizing that this might be his only chance to intercede on Blair's behalf. "Just let her _talk_ to you. Let her _try_ to make amends. Because she wants to. Honestly, I think she'd do just about anything to repair…you know. What she did."

At that moment, the elevator _dinged_, and they heard the sound of its doors sliding open.

"Finally," Chuck growled, and, setting his hand against the arm of the sofa, began the slow, arduous process of staggering onto his feet.

Dan turned his head towards the penthouse entrance, furrowing his brow, and listened to the approaching _clack_ of high heels on the hardwood floor.

Who could _that_ be, he wondered, as the stranger emerged from the foyer and stepped into the light.

Well. Only the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his entire life.

Her eyes were wide-set, rimmed in kohl, and her lips were full, lined with a ruby tint. Her nose was as tiny as a kitten's, and her red hair fell down around her heart-shaped face in old-fashioned movie-star waves.

Her little black dress—which Dan's mind instinctively abbreviated as an LBD, as a result of suffering though countless fashion commentaries from Blair—clung to her curves perfectly, and she strode across the floor in her four-inch stilettos as if she'd been born with them strapped to her feet.

Mesmerized, he watched her body undulate as she approached, and he did an involuntary double take at Nate when he rose from his perch on the coffee table and walked up to her as if her presence were nothing out of the ordinary.

"Hey Nate," said the red-haired goddess in a soft, sad sort of voice.

"Hey Wendy."

"Thanks for coming."

"Thanks for _calling_," Nate returned gratefully.

"Hey," Dan blurted out with a gauche wave of his hand—and instantly reprimanded himself for being the biggest dork in the world. "Uh...I'm Dan."

Wendy looked at him skeptically. "Who's he?" she asked Nate.

Dan felt his soul shrivel up like a worm on the sidewalk on a hot summer day.

"Uh—" Nate was about to explain, but Chuck was already shoving him out of the way and stumbling up to Wendy.

"Took you long enough. _Pills_," he demanded, holding out his hand.

"_Hey_," Wendy said, a note of warning in her voice. "Just because you're hurting right now doesn't mean you get to be an asshole to me."

Chuck didn't apologize—but he didn't say anything else to her either. He simply stood there and waited. Dan supposed that this was a sufficient display of remorse, since Wendy, after a short pause, reached into a little purse dangling from her wrist and handed Chuck a prescription bottle. He snatched it away from her and opened it as he walked towards the pool table, shaking out several pills onto his palm.

"Don't take so many at once," Wendy pleaded.

Chuck paid her no attention, and swallowed the pills with the help of yet another overflowing tumbler of scotch. Grabbing the decanter by its slender neck, he walked over to the couch and collapsed onto it, splashing the amber liquid all over the floor and down the front of his white shirt.

Wendy stood in front of him. "Are you done?" she asked impatiently, cocking a hand against her hip. "Because what you really need to do right now is sleep."

"I will in a minute," Chuck replied crossly. "Just as soon as the pills kick in."

"Well. In that case, I'm going to leave before you start up with the rambling again," Wendy declared, and Dan's heart sank as she turned towards the door.

Chuck's hand reached out and grasped her wrist like a striking snake.

"Stay," he ordered.

"Chuck, it's Friday night," she reminded him, exasperated. "I have to work. I can't keep blowing off all my other clients to take care of you."

"Donald Trump can reschedule," Chuck said angrily. "I'll pay you whatever you want."

Given her testiness earlier, Dan was expecting Wendy to snap at him—but, to his surprise, she paused for a moment, and tucking a strand of her flame-red hair behind her ear, squatted down in front of Chuck. Laying her hand gently on his knee, she locked her eyes with his.

"You have people here who you don't have to pay," she said in a slow, emphatic voice. "Stop pushing them away."

Chuck regarded her for a moment, his callous expression beginning to crumble at the edges of his face.

"Just until I fall asleep," he negotiated, suddenly looking like a little boy again.

Wendy sighed. "Okay."

Chuck's eyes rolled back into his head. He began to nod off, but jerked his head back up with a start.

"Well, that should take about another thirty seconds," she remarked wryly. "Nate, can you get him to bed?"

"Sure, Wendy," Nate said compliantly, hooking his arm under Chuck's shoulders and guiding him onto his feet.

"Don't leave until I fall asleep," Chuck murmured over his shoulder to Wendy as Nate steered him out of the room.

"I won't," she assured him.

They left the room, and Dan found himself standing there with Wendy, alone.

He opened his mouth, and tried—and failed—to think of something clever to say.

She regarded him for a moment, the corner of her mouth tipping upwards with a hint of amusement. "Well, I don't know about you, _Dan_, but I could use a cigarette right now," she remarked. She jerked her head towards the balcony. "Keep me company?"

Later on, he realized that he must have said something out loud - "sure," "no problem," something like that. But inside of him there was only one word.

_Yes_.

**—**

"So what's been going on?" Wendy said as soon as they stepped outside, dodging the broken glass that lay all over the deck of the balcony.

She reached into her purse, extricating a cigarette—which she pursed between her lips—and a lighter—which she flicked into flame in front of her face, momentarily illuminating the beauty of her features.

"Oh, you know," Dan said in a put-on tone of nonchalance, relieved that a half-coherent sentence was coming out of his mouth for a change. "Just your usual Friday night at the Bass palace. Chuck breaking things. Talking shit. Trying to get me to punch him in the face. Oh—and making some bizarre homoerotic insinuations about Nate on ecstasy…"

Wendy's expression softened into something resembling nostalgia. "Oh, yeah," she murmured with a little knowing smirk. "Now_ that _was a fun night."

Dan opened his mouth, only to discover he was at a loss for words.

"Are you a friend of Chuck's?" Wendy went on, as she turned up her elbow and held her cigarette aloft. "He's never mentioned you before."

"Uh—no. Not exactly. We….well, Chuck and I actually don't like each other very much. At _all_, really. It's just…I'm friends with Blair."

"Aha," Wendy said, raising her eyebrows. "_Blair_."

"You…you know her?"

"I know _of_ her," she corrected with a little smile. "Can't say I've ever had the privilege of meeting Miss Waldorf."

"So…I guess…Chuck's mentioned some things to you..."

"Chuck and I go way back, Dan," Wendy explained. "When it comes to him, I know pretty much everything that's worth knowing."

"So you know about…what happened with Blair," Dan ventured.

"Yeah," she replied, a tinge of disappointment creeping into her voice.

"I'm guessing that's…why he called you? Because of Blair?"

"Dan—" Wendy replied, as if she were saying something painfully obvious. "Blair's the only reason he ever calls me anymore."

There was a short pause, during which she took a slow, ruminative drag on her cigarette, and seemed to be rehearsing what she was going to say next.

Dan watched her face as she inhaled, the red glowing end of her cigarette wobbling in the twilight. He wasn't exactly surprised that Chuck had been seeing a high-class prostitute over the past few days. But even though he was...well, not entirely outside of his rights, so to speak, considering Blair's recent entanglement with Mack—he was worried about how Blair would take it. After all—Chuck hadn't just been seeing a call girl, but one with whom he apparently had a longstanding…relationship.

Though what that relationship _was, _exactly_…_he couldn't really say.

"You know," Wendy finally broke the silence, exhaling out a haze of smoke, "I once watched this documentary about autism on YouTube. It was really interesting—it said that the sensation of _being embraced_ has this…calming effect on autistic people. But the problem is…they're so introverted, that getting _that_ close to another human being really freaks them out. So this woman with autism invented this….hugging machine. It clasps you. And you get the calming sensation without the…you know. Unwanted intimacy.

"That's what I am to Chuck," she continued. "Whenever he needs help calming down, but can't deal with being close to people—he calls _me_."

"Well. I imagine you do a little more than…you know. Hug him."

_Dear God_, he realized. _I actually just said that out loud._

Wendy widened her eyes at him and let out a laugh. "You _think_?" she asked, teasing.

"Sorry…" Dan flailed. "I just…"

"Hey, no problem, friend," she said, lifting her cigarette to her smiling lips. "I _am_ aware of what I do for a living."

Dan exhaled in relief.

"And that _is_ how it used to be," Wendy continued, her eyes skimming over the distance thoughtfully. "Get in, get him off, go home. But not this time."

"You mean…you haven't been…" Dan searched for a euphemism.

Wendy shook her head. "It's just been a total weep-a-thon," she remarked in an unusually cold tone, and inhaled on her cigarette again.

Dan felt a surge of relief in his chest. "Are you…disappointed or something?" he asked.

"Having sex with someone is lot easier then dealing with their actual problems," she said in a wry voice. "And Chuck's got a _lot_ of those."

"Huh. Yeah—twenty-year-old billionaires…they really have it _rough_," Dan returned in a bitter voice. "You know, what with the….being born into a life of privilege…never having to deal with consequences of their behavior…going on self-destructive binges…and destroying all of the people around them in the process," he finished. "That sort of thing."

Wendy looked at him and let out an incredulous noise.

"Look," she began. "I don't know you, Dan. But, _Jesus_—if you think that _money_ makes everything easy, you're even more naïve than I thought."

Dan opened his mouth to retort, but she didn't give him the chance.

"He's the most love-starved person I've ever met," she went on, "and I meet a _lot_ of them in my line of work. This latest debacle with Blair has really put him through the wringer."

"You know, he hasn't always been that great to her—" Dan tried to counter.

"Believe me, I know," Wendy interrupted. "I don't envy her, either. I don't imagine he's an easy man to love."

She took one final drag off her cigarette, and flicked it off of the balcony into the street below.

"By the way," she said in an edgy voice as she turned around, "the next time you talk to Blair…I'd rather you didn't mention me."

"Oh?" Dan was not surprised.

"I think you'll agree that it's better for all parties involved if Blair Waldorf remains blissfully unaware of my existence," Wendy remarked. "I don't much fancy the idea of getting caught between the two of _them_."

"I…well. I completely understand," Dan said, wishing he could be so lucky.

Wendy's phone let out a sudden peep.

"Excuse me," she said, holding up a finger, and took her phone from her purse and stepped a few feet away from him.

"Jeremy," Dan heard her purr into the receiver. "I know, I know—I'm running late. But look…I promise I'll stay over for breakfast this time. Is that okay with you, baby? ….good. Glad to hear it. Yes—crêpes _do_ sound lovely. Okay. I promise—I'll be over ASAP. Okay. Ciao, handsome."

She pressed a button on her phone and dropped it back into her purse.

"Busy night?" he asked.

Wendy rolled her eyes. "I only have _one_ appointment," she said. "He's booked me every Friday night for the past six weeks. And he's a good-looking kid, and he's ridiculously sweet—but I swear to God, I'm starting to think that it's not worth the trouble. The poor thing is obviously head over heels in love with me. He's driving my assistant insane…she can barely keep track of all his calls…"

She sighed and raised her hands in a gesture of frustration. "I'm supposed to be providing a very simple service," she explained. "But I always end up having to deal with everyone's insecurities and neuroses and _daddy-doesn't-love-me_ issues."

Dan laughed. "I think I…can imagine why that might get annoying after a while," he said.

"Ehh," Wendy said with a shrug. "I should stop complaining. I mean—it's an occupational hazard. Transference, I mean."

She paused for a moment. "I just refuse to lie," she said—softly, as though it were only an afterthought, but something told Dan otherwise.

She checked the time on her phone. "I really do need to go," she said. "Jeremy's been really anxious to see me, and he's kind of…delicate, and I don't want to keep him waiting any longer."

She turned towards the door to the balcony. "Chuck has to have passed out by now, right?" she asked.

"Well, if he's not dead, I'm sure that OxyContin knocked him right out," Dan conjectured in a joking way.

"Hmm," Wendy hummed. "Well—actually, they were only sugar pills." Smiling, she tipped her finger to her lips in a "shh" gesture. "But don't tell Chuck that, or they won't work."

They heard the crunch of breaking glass, and turned their heads to see Nate step out onto the littered deck.

"Is he finally asleep?" she asked.

"Yeah," Nate said. "He had quite a bit to say about Blair before he passed out, though…"

"Well, that's hardly anything out of the ordinary," Wendy said in a dry voice.

She pulled the strap of her purse over her shoulder.

"Time for me to go," she declared to the two men. "Nate—please. Call me if you need me. But, um, honestly—I hope that you won't have to."

"I hope so, too," Nate said sadly.

Wendy walked up to him, looking him in the eyes, and pressed her hand to his shoulder in an affectionate way. "Thanks again for coming back," she said.

"Hey—no problem."

Wendy turned back to glance at Dan. "See you around," she said over her shoulder.

Dan coughed. "Yeah. Uh—nice to meet you and everything."

And with that, Wendy was walking away, texting out a message with two thumbs (to Jeremy, no doubt, Dan thought) as she disappeared into the penthouse door.

Nate sighed. He ran his hands over his face and through his hair, and walked up to the railing of the balcony. He leaned against it, surveying the Manhattan cityscape with an unreadable expression. After watching him for a moment, Dan crept up to his right and mimicked him, laying his elbows against the rail.

A loaded silence fell between the two of them.

"So….what now?" Nate asked, still looking straight ahead.

"Well," Dan began haltingly. "I'm thinking…we need to figure out a way to get Chuck and Blair back together."

Nate nodded several times.

"I mean—if not for their own psychological health…then for ours," Dan added.

Nate let out a short, breathy laugh. "Yeah," he confirmed.

There was another beat of silence.

Nate broke it.

"So…." he said slowly, looking at Dan over his shoulder. "Do you want to call Serena? Or should I?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I smell a plot coming on...**

**What did you think of this chapter, guys? Do you think Dan and Nate will be able to keep up their little alliance with Serena in the picture? Will Blair ever be able to convince Chuck that she really does love him? Or will Mack...or Wendy...do something to complicate matters?**

**Let me know what you think and where you want it to go! I always try to take my reviews into accounts when planning out future chapters. :)**


	11. Before it Ends, Tell Me Where to Begin

At noon the following day, a taxicab pulled alongside a building on Park Avenue. Its door creaked open, and a shapely female leg, ending in a narrow espadrille wedge, swung out over the curb.

Serena van der Woodsen slid a pair of oversized sunglasses down over her face and stepped out of the cab onto the sidewalk. For approximately the fifth time in the past six hours, she wondered what could have possibly happened while she was gone to warrant an early return from her vacation.

She had spent the past week strolling around the central Moroccan bazaar, visiting fashion houses, going to spas, and eating a lot of fresh fruit and olive oil-drenched cuisine—which had done wonders for her skin. Its glow was accentuated by a golden tan, courtesy of a two-day sojourn at a resort on the Mediterranean.

With a batik scarf twirled around her golden tresses, bleached to a lighter shade of blonde by the beams of the sun, she felt more beautiful than she had for a long time.

If only Nate hadn't called her back to New York before she'd had the chance to _really_ get to know Hassan, a gorgeous Moroccan medical student she'd met the night before…

_"Serena, look—something's going down right now, and we need you to come back."_

_"Why…Nate, what is it?" Serena said in a distracted voice, waving away Hassan's offer of a hookah pipe with a little giggle._

_"Well…it has to do with Blair."_

_She instantly straightened up in her chair. "Is she in trouble? What's wrong with her?" she asked in an urgent voice._

_"She's okay right now," Nate said evasively. "It's just…kind of complicated. Dan and I thought it would be easier if we could all just talk about it together. I know you're on vacation right now, but if you could come back…I'd really appreciate it."_

_"Of course I'll come back," Serena said. "I'll be there ASAP—I'll take the jet. Mom and Eric will understand."_

_"Whew," Nate whistled through his lips. "Good. Send me a text when you're back in New York. We'll catch you at the penthouse tomorrow morning."_

_"Nate—" Serena hesitated. "Is this like…some kind of intervention? Did she…relapse?"_

_"Serena—no. It's nothing like that." Nate sighed. "Look, I don't know as many details as Dan…but he texted me that he's working on a plan. We'll both fill you in tomorrow, okay?"_

Maybe it _was_ nothing, she reflected, as she handed the cabbie his fare and flashed him a tight-lipped smile. Nate hadn't sounded _that_ worried.

Still, she would feel better once she found out what was going on. Especially since _Dan_ was apparently involved.

She reflected on the text she'd sent him a few days ago, buzzed on grappa and watching the rosy fingers of dawn creep through the sky above the wine-dark sea….

**Sometimes I want to hate you. But no matter where I am in the world, whenever I watch the sun rise, it brings back good memories of you.**

_Ugh_, she thought, shaking her head at herself as she stepped into the marble-floored lobby of Blair's building, flipping her sunglasses back up over her hair. How stupid was she? The last time she'd seen Dan, he'd treated her with nothing but contempt. She really needed to get over him. _Stat_.

Even if he was her first true love, she thought with a sudden twist of her heart.

But the scene taking place in the lobby distracted her from these painful ruminations.

"I told you twice already," the doorman was saying to someone with evident exasperation. "Unless they buzz you up, you ain't going up! And her housekeeper says she's not even home. So you can just turn on around—" (he made a twirling motion with his hand) "and head on back out the door."

Then the doorman noticed Serena. His face lit up.

"Miss Serena," he said warmly. "Welcome back. Let me help you with your bags."

"Oh no, Martin, you don't have to—" Serena started to say, but he interrupted her.

"Anything for a beautiful young lady," he replied with a wink, and headed out of the door to the sidewalk.

"Aww, thanks, Martin!" Serena cheered, beaming after him.

"No problem, Miss Serena," he said over his shoulder.

Then the stranger turned around and looked at her.

Serena gave him a quick head-to-toe once-over. He was handsome, she realized. Tall and well built, especially across the shoulders. And his tawny hair reminded her a little of Tripp Vanderbilt…

Her sexual senses twanged like the plucked string of a harp.

Well, if she were going to move on from Dan Humphrey, this was as good at time as any to start. Especially since her evening with Hassan had been tragically cut short…

"Hey," she said in a friendly tone. "I'm Serena."

"Uh…_hi_," he returned, evidently surprised by the warmth of her greeting. "I'm Mack."

"So…" Serena drew out the syllable in a flirty way, and bit one side of her lower lip. "What's going on?"

She twitched her hips, sending her circle skirt fluttering outwards to one side—a motion that inevitably drew attention to the length of her legs.

It was a technique that had never failed her. But, to her surprise, Mack didn't seem to take any particular notice.

"Oh. Just…trying to talk to a girl," he said in a discouraged voice.

"Well, you're talking to one now," she glibly replied, shooting him a megawatt grin.

At this point Mack finally seemed to grasp Serena's intentions.

"Uh—that's _true_," he said, looking slightly embarrassed. "And I'm…very flattered, believe me, but I kinda came here with a specific girl in mind."

This was definitely a hitch in her plans, but Serena was undeterred.

"Who?" she returned with a nonchalant loss of her hair. "Maybe I know her."

"Well—" Mack replied in a noncommittal way. "She lives up in the penthouse."

Serena stared at him for a couple of seconds.

_"I _live in the penthouse," she said.

Mack stared back at her for a beat. Then he let out a bitter little laugh and turned his gaze to the floor.

Serena blinked. "You're here to see _Blair_?" she realized.

"Yeah," he admitted, straightening his posture.

The warm temperature radiating from Serena suddenly dropped to a sub-arctic level.

"She has a boyfriend, you know," she warned.

"I know," he immediately replied.

"And you're _still_ trying to see her?"

Mack averted his eyes for a moment. Then he shoved his hands in his pockets, and shrugged, as if to say that Blair's boyfriend were an inconsequential detail.

"He's my _brother_," Serena said vehemently.

Mack's eyebrows furrowed. "Wow," he remarked, his eyes darting over her face. "Not much of a family resemblance, is there?"

For some reason that Serena didn't fully comprehend, this last comment really pissed her off.

"Okay—you need to leave," she finally declared, holding up her hand to face him and splaying out its fingers.

"Look—" Mack said desperately. He paused, and took a moment to search for her name. "_Serena_," he remembered. "I just want to talk to her for a second. If you could just let me up—it won't take five minutes—"

"You must be crazy if you think I'm going to do that."

Mack let out a little laugh. "_Funny_," he said. "A minute ago I think you would have invited me up on your own."

Several hours later, reflecting on the nasty scene that had transpired in the lobby earlier that day, Serena liked to think that she would have had some choice words for Mack had she been given the chance.

But she didn't get a chance. At that moment she became conscious of someone who had entered the lobby a few seconds ago.

It was Nate. And he was staring at Mack with equal parts recognition and rage.

"Is this him?" he said, and, without waiting for an answer, ran straight up to Mack and smacked his fist into the center of his face.

Serena let out a sharp cry of surprise and put her hands over her face.

When she dropped them a moment later, she saw that Mack's nose was already spurting blood down over his mouth and the front of his shirt.

"_Motherfucker_," he swore, looking down at his bloody hands.

Then he lifted his head, his eyes flashing fury, and took two incredibly quick steps towards Nate. He landed a hard right jab against his cheekbone.

"_Nate!_" Serena yelled as Nate staggered backwards, grimacing and lifting his palm to his face.

In an instinctive motion, she stepped between the two men and held her arms out to her sides, guarding Nate with her own body.

"Oh, that's just _great_," Mack said in a frustrated voice, wiping his bleeding nose on his sleeve. "You're gonna hide behind a _girl_?"

Nate's jaw tightened. He tried to sidestep Serena, but, anticipating this reaction, she quickly backed into him and interlocked her arms behind his back.

"_Stop it!"_ she bellowed. "Both of you!"

The conviction in her voice must have brought the two men to their senses. Mack unclenched his fists, and she felt Nate's tensed body give slightly underneath her arms.

But they were still eyeing each other with an aggression that frightened her.

"Who the _fuck_ are you?" Mack spat out at Nate, plainly confused as to why a complete stranger had just punched him in the face.

"I'm Chuck's best friend, _asshole_!" Nate angrily returned. "I know who you are, and what you did. And if you ask me, you deserve _a hell of a lot_ _more_ than a bloody nose!"

Once again, he tried to move around Serena, but she held on him with a vice-tight grip. Her espadrilles skidded against the floor as she struggled to keep her balance.

"Nate, _don't_," she pleaded over her shoulder.

Nate was an athlete, but Mack had about four inches and thirty pounds on him—and she didn't like those odds.

"Oh, _come on,_" Mack said to Serena, rolling his eyes. "Let Abercrombie go. If he wants to fight, I'm happy to oblige him."

Behind her, she heard Nate inhale so sharply that his breath hissed through his teeth, and once again she had to struggle to keep her arms around him as he attempted to break free.

This had gone on long enough.

"Get out of my building before I call the police," she barked at Mack.

"Miss Serena…" she heard a voice venture somewhere off towards the door.

They turned and saw Martin standing there, wide-eyed, holding the handles of two suitcases.

"I can call 'em for you," he offered, looking at Mack with eyes that said "I knew you were trouble."

Mack exhaled. "_Fine_," he said with a grim smile. "Tell Chuck Bass that his little army's done their job. I'm gone."

"Yeah, don't let the door hit you on the way out," Nate threw back at him as he headed towards the door.

Mack was exiting the building with such furious intent that he half-collided with someone who had just crossed over the threshold.

"_Uff_," Dan grunted, scarcely managing to regain his balance. "You might want to watch—"

He looked up. Recognized Mack.

"…where you're going," he finished in a quieter voice, his eyes taking in Mack's crooked nose and bloodied face and shirt.

Mack looked at Dan for a moment, biting his lips, and seemed to be debating what to say. But then he just shook his head and slammed his hand into the door. It swung open, and he paced out onto the street and quickly disappeared from view.

Dan turned around and looked at Serena. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, she was still backed up against Nate, whose right eye was rapidly turning purple and swelling shut.

"So…uh—" he hesitated.

Then he raised both of his hands in a questioning gesture. "What did I miss?" he asked jokingly.

**—**

"_Ouch_," Nate said, wincing.

"Sorry," Serena sang out apologetically. "Did I press too hard?"

"No…it's just…really cold," Nate said, obviously lying.

Dan looked grumpily at Serena, who was sitting on the arm of the sofa next to Nate, holding a package of frozen peas against his eye.

They had managed to tell her everything that had happened over the past few days—at least, everything that she needed to know. Though Serena had been taken aback at first, she had accepted the news with surprising calm. And she'd agreed that they were right—it was important for all of them to work together to help their friends reconcile.

Now they were just waiting for Blair to return to the penthouse so that Dan could tell everyone about the plan he'd worked out the night before.

"I think I'm okay, actually," Nate continued, his desire to escape further pain apparently overriding his enjoyment at sitting so close to Serena.

Serena lowered the package from Nate's face and regarded his black eye with a tender expression. "He really got you good," she said unhappily, and brushed the hair back from his forehead with a gentle motion of her fingertips.

"Well, I got him pretty good too," Nate said with a tinge of pride, and gave Serena a sweet little smile, which she returned.

Dan inwardly groaned. He had been up half the night thinking about the situation from every possible angle and coming up with a plan to resolve it, but all Nate had to do was throw a punch and suddenly he was Serena's hero.

"Yeah—well played, Punchy," he said to Nate in a less than charitable tone.

Nate looked at Dan, surprised and slightly angry. "Well, sorry, but I'm not exactly friends with the guy," he returned. "Unlike _some _people…"

Serena gaped at Dan. "You're _friends_ with him?" she asked.

"No, I'm not friends with him," Dan responded testily. "I talked to him _once_."

"Yeah. Over a couple of beers like you were old _chums_," Nate added.

"I told him to leave Blair alone, all right?" Dan snapped.

"Well, _that_ obviously worked," Nate replied with a roll of his eyes.

Dan was opening his mouth to retort when Serena intervened.

"Guys, cut it out, okay?" she said in a plaintive voice. "We're all in this together. Besides, I already told Martin to call the police if Mack shows up here again."

Dan eyed Nate curiously. "How did you even know it was him?" he asked. "Or is it just pretty much your M.O. to throw punches first and ask questions later?"

"I saw his photo in Chuck's folder," Nate said with a hint of annoyance. "I read it after he went to sleep."

He shook his head a couple of times. "I just don't get it," he admitted. "He really doesn't seem like Blair's type. He's just…some guy."

"Yeah, well, honestly, I don't think it really has that much to do with him," Dan opined. "I think Blair's got some…_issues_ with Chuck. And _this_, unfortunately, is what came out of it."

At that moment, they heard the elevator doors open, and saw Blair walk into the reception area, looking wan and tired.

"Sorry I'm late," she said in an exhausted monotone. "I couldn't just sit around the apartment anymore, so I went for a walk and I guess I just…spaced out."

Glancing at the dark circles under her eyes, Dan guessed that Blair had gotten even less sleep than he did.

"_B_," Serena greeted her best friend affectionately, and, sliding off of the arm of the sofa, walked up to her and clasped her in her arms.

Blair stiffened, plainly not expecting such a warm reception from Serena, but accepted her embrace.

Then she caught a glimpse of Nate over Serena's shoulder.

"_Nate_," she gasped. "What happened to your face?"

Nate let out an exaggerated sigh, as if to say that his injury wasn't _that_ bad.

"Mack tried to pay you a little visit this morning," Dan explained. "And Nate rewarded him for his heartfelt devotion with a hard right to the nose."

"Oh no," Blair intoned, holding up a hand to her mouth.

"It's okay, Blair," Nate reassured her. "I just…felt like I owed it to Chuck, you know?"

At the mention of Chuck's name, Blair's lower lip began to tremble.

"I just—I feel _so bad_," she confessed to all of them, her voice nearly breaking.

"B, it's okay," Serena soothed her, stroking her back. "We're here to help."

"I don't know why anybody would want to help me," Blair said in a miserable voice. "I'm a terrible person."

"No, you're not," Serena reassured her. "You made a terrible _mistake_, sure. But no one here is judging you. We're all far from perfect."

Blair sniffled, looking around at all of them.

"Is this an official meeting of the Non-Judging Breakfast Club?" she joked, blinking through her tears. "Oh wait," she said suddenly, her eyes falling on Dan. "Humphrey's here. We might have to change the name."

Under normal circumstances, Dan would have tossed back a snide reply. But he was so relieved to see Blair acting halfway like her usual self again that he decided to let this one slide.

"_Hey_," he said in a firm yet affectionate tone. "You have to admit—I've been good lately."

"That's true," Blair conceded, with just a hint of gratitude in her wide brown eyes.

"Sit down," Dan said to her kindly, patting the sofa cushion next to him. "As a matter of fact, everyone—" (he motioned towards himself with a whirl of his hand) "—come over here. Crowd around."

Serena and Nate exchanged puzzled glances, but they obediently walked over to the sofa and plopped down onto it together.

Dan reached into his messenger bag and pulled out his laptop.

"What's the laptop for?" Blair asked, wrinkling her forehead.

"I just put together a little something the other night," Dan replied, setting the laptop on the coffee table, flipping it open and pushing its power button. "I, uh, thought it would be a good way to tell all of you about my plan."

He clicked a file on the desktop, and a program started up.

"You made a _PowerPoint_?" Blair asked in disbelief. "_Really_?"

"What?" Dan said nervously. "I find it an effective means of organizing information. Also, uhh—" He coughed. "I drank a lot of coffee last night. Okay. Here we go," he said, clicking "View Slideshow."

He jumped up to his feet, cracked his knuckles, and rapped the tip of his index finger against the trackpad.

A photo of Chuck appeared on the screen. It was a candid shot of him walking down a busy Manhattan street, holding his cell phone next to his ear.

"Chuck Bass," Dan declared. He took a deep breath, and opened his mouth to continue.

"God, he looked so good in that suit," Blair interrupted him in a dreamy voice, letting her eyes wander all over the picture on the screen.

"That _was_ a good suit," Serena said in a tone that was just as admiring as Blair's, but lacking its sexual undertone.

"I wonder what happened to it," Blair went on pensively. "The last time we organized his closet he—"

"_Chuck Bass_," Dan repeated, glaring at Serena and Blair, who straightened up in their seats and looked at him with wide eyes like schoolgirls on their very best behavior. He cleared his throat, and gestured towards the screen. "Powerful and rich, yes. But very emotionally fragile. His family history…or, er, lack thereof…has left him with a lot of abandonment issues. And at heart he believes that he's fundamentally unworthy of love."

"Uhh…Dan?" Nate offered. "This is…weird."

"Yeah, uh, I know," Dan immediately admitted. He scratched the back of his head. "But I, uh, kinda came up with it at 4AM, so—"

"No, Dan, keep going," Serena encouraged him. She glanced at Blair, who was beginning to grow visibly upset, and took her by the hand and entwined their fingers together.

Dan took a deep breath. "The problem—" he said, leaning down to poise his finger over the laptop's trackpad, "—is not that Chuck doesn't love Blair anymore."

He clicked it, and a series of little bubbles extended upwards from Chuck's head, ending in a heart with Blair's image in its center.

Nate lifted his hand to his face in a gesture of incredulity, and winced with pain when he accidentally touched his swollen eye.

"He was very clear about that," Dan continued, looking pointedly at Blair. "He's still completely crazy about you. And I think he always will be."

Blair took a deep breath and let it out, and Serena patted the back of her hand.

"The problem is that he thinks that you don't love him anymore," Dan said, clicking the trackpad. Suddenly, Blair's eyebrows slanted downwards, giving her image a callous, uncaring expression. "And that's caused him to emotionally shut down." He tapped the trackpad again. A jagged line cut through the heart encircling Blair's image, causing it to splinter in two. "And, predictably enough," he went on, leaning over the laptop, "this has led him to—"

"_Oo_—Dan?" Serena interrupted in a breathless voice. "Can I be the one to push the button?"

"Uh—_"_ Dan hesitated. "Sure," he allotted, waving his hand at Serena. "Go ahead."

Serena clicked it with a flourish of her wrist. The two halves of the heart slammed back together, and the image of Blair was replaced with a cartoon bottle with "XXX" on its label.

"—take refuge in substance abuse," Dan finished, a little more disappointed than he would have liked to admit that he hadn't been the one to click the button.

Blair rolled her eyes. "That's a pretty tame illustration, don't you think?" she said, gesturing towards the cartoon bottle.

Seeing Dan's wounded expression, she sighed. "_What_?" she asked defensively, swiveling one of her palms towards the ceiling. "You don't have to sugarcoat it. He's probably knee-deep in hookers and coke right now…"

"Well, hoo_kers_, no," Dan said, accentuating the plural ending of the word. "But—_ow_!" he cried, jerking back his foot from underneath the coffee table.

He looked up at Nate, who shot him a tight-mouthed glare.

"Hookers, no," he quickly repeated.

Normally, he knew, he'd have never been able to get away with a slip like that. But, fortunately, Serena had been whispering something in Blair's ear when he'd made the earlier comment, and she'd been too distracted to notice this verbal clue and investigate it calmly.

"But—" he continued, eyeing Nate warily, "suffice it to say that he's probably had less than ten minutes of sobriety since…well. Since he got the bad news."

Blair lowered her eyes.

"So what now?" Nate said, obviously eager to get to the end of Dan's presentation.

Dan held up his hands and licked his lips. "What we need to do is get Chuck to a place where he's going to be able to _hear_ Blair tell him that she loves him," he said emphatically. "And I don't mean just a physical place—though that is part of the problem," he admitted in a lower voice. "I mean—a mental place, an emotional place…what have you. Once he's able to believe _that_—well, let's face it, you two are going to have some things to talk about," he said, looking at Blair. "But that has to be the first step.

"To get to that point, we need to accomplish some things," he continued. "And all of us are going to have a part to play."

He nodded at Serena, who started in her seat, and quickly leaned forward to rap the button with her finger.

The image of Chuck and the bottle disappeared, and the words STEP ONE: GET CHUCK BACK TO FUNCTIONING ALCOHOLISM appeared on the screen.

"Nate," Dan said. "I don't want you to talk to Chuck about Blair. I mean, you have a history with her too, and if you try to talk about her, I think it might dredge up some painful memories. Do you get what I mean?" he asked, wincing.

"Uhh—yeah, I think so," Nate said in an unconvinced voice.

"What I want you to do is try to—well." Dan gestured towards the screen. "Get Chuck back to something resembling stability. Distract him. Try to get him to do things that _don't_ involve getting obliterated."

"Oo—you could go _shopping_," Serena suggested in a bright voice.

Nate stared at her for a moment. Then he returned his gaze to Dan.

"I guess…I could take him sailing on our yacht or something," he ventured. "Dad wanted to take it out on Sunday."

"That's good. Yeah," Dan said, nodding. "That's the right idea. Just…remember to leave the scotch at home."

"Will do," Nate returned with a nod.

"Serena," Dan said, turning towards her.

"Yes!" Serena chirped.

"Uh—" He nodded towards the laptop.

"Oh!" Serena said in a startled voice, and clicked the button again.

STEP TWO: REMIND CHUCK OF FAMILY CONNECTIONS appeared on the screen.

"Lily and Eric are gone, so it's all on you," Dan said. "I know that you and Chuck have been getting really close lately. Don't try to talk about Blair. If you do, he's just going to try to figure out whose side you're on, and it's going to end badly. Just remind him of your family bond, assure him that you're there for him and tell him that you aren't going to go away. And I really think that this conversation should happen as soon as possible."

"I'll go tonight," Serena said, giving him a salute.

"Good," Dan said, nodding. "Now—once we've gotten him to a point where he's not shitfaced all the time, and some of his abandonment issues have been addressed, we reach the final stage of the plan."

Without waiting for his cue, Serena clicked the button.

"Uh—thank you, Serena," Dan commented wryly.

GET CHUCK AND BLAIR IN THE SAME PHYSICAL LOCATION were the words now displayed on the screen.

"How are we supposed to do that?" Blair asked in a skeptical voice. "He's banned me from the Empire."

"I have reason to believe that we may have help from the inside," Dan told her. "When I was leaving the penthouse the other night, the elevator guy pulled me aside."

"You mean Javier?" Nate said.

"Yeah," Dan confirmed. "He told me that the Empire employees had noticed that Chuck was totally out of it. Apparently they're all really worried about him."

"Aww," Serena said, obviously moved. "That's so sweet."

Dan turned up his hands. "Apparently Chuck Bass gives better benefits to his staff than any another luxury hotel owner in Manhattan. Who knew? Anyways, if they knew that we were trying to help him, I think that they might help us sneak Blair in. Especially if there were an event going on that would provide a sufficient amount of…distraction.

"Serena," he said, nodding at her, and her hand darted forward and clicked the button again.

A screenshot from New York Magazine appeared on the screen. Its headline: EMPIRE HOTEL TO CELEBRATE ANNIVERSARY.

"You want to crash the Empire anniversary party?" Blair said, incredulous. "Are you out of your mind? The security detail's going to be insane."

"Aha," Dan said with a smug look. "Fortunately for us, Javier's boyfriend is head of security. I'm pretty sure that he can help us sneak you inside."

"I dunno," Nate said. "It seems like weird timing to me. I mean, it's Chuck's party. He's going to be kind of busy."

"He's going to be at the top of his game," Dan said. "I can't think of a time when he's going to be less likely to shut Blair out. So…."

He turned to Blair. "You're going to approach him, pull him aside, and make a heartfelt plea to win him back. At that point, it's going to be all up to you. But if you repeat to him what you said to me…honestly, I think you've got a pretty good shot."

"Yeah, if I can even get to him through the hordes of harlots vying for his attention," Blair grumbled.

"No one knows that you and Chuck are on the outs," Dan reminded her. "And we all know that every harlot in Manhattan fears the wrath of Blair Cornelia Waldorf."

At this, Blair cracked a little smile.

"Well, I think it sounds really good," Serena said after a short pause, smiling at Dan.

"Yeah, I guess," Nate said. "But I mean—" (he scratched the top of his head) "—does it really have to be...that complicated?"

Dan stared at him for a moment. "Wh…what do you mean?"

"Well, it's like—all we _really_ need to do is let Blair talk to Chuck," Nate said, raising his hand and letting it flop back down onto his thigh.

"Uh, sweetie, that's the problem," Blair reminded him. "He won't see me, and he won't take my calls."

"So just call him from one of our cells," Nate said, as if this solution were obvious. "He'll pick up, you can be like, yo Chuck—I'm sorry for what happened, I love you a lot, let's work things out. And then you can move on from there."

"No, see—" Dan cut in. He leaned forward over his laptop, restarting the slideshow and frenetically clicking through to the slide with the broken heart. "I _clearly_ explained why we needed to lay some groundwork before that conversation can happen."

"Just let her try it out, man," Nate urged. "If it doesn't work, we'll do your plan. Serena can go talk to him, I'll try to keep him from drinking, Blair will crash the anniversary party—whatever. I just think that we should exhaust, you know—the more direct option first."

Dan opened his mouth, and sighed.

Then he looked down at Blair. "Well, what do you say?" he asked. "It's your call."

Blair hesitated for a second.

"_Fine_," she replied, her assurance not entirely masking the fact that she was nervous about the prospect. "I'll talk to him."

"Here's my cell," Serena said gently, slipping it into her hand.

"Thanks, S," Blair returned. She looked at the cell and swallowed, and then looked up at all of them.

"I'm just going to—" she began, and gestured with her head towards the other room.

"Go right ahead," Dan said in a gentle voice.

Blair rose to her feet and walked out of the room.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Dan looked at Nate, exasperated by his interference. "This is a mistake," he warned.

"Aww, man—how do you even know that?" Nate said in a slow drawl. "Besides—you're the one who almost let the cat out of the bag about Wendy earlier," he added, scoffing. "I mean, who are you—_me_?"

"No, I'm the person who was up half the night putting together this plan just so you could show up and _shit_ all over it," Dan returned angrily.

"I didn't say there was anything wrong with the plan!" Nate protested. "I just think it's a little bit too complicated for what we're trying to do."

"Yeah, well—everything's a little bit too complicated for you, Nate.".

"Guys—_stop it_!" Serena ordered in a sharp voice.

Nate clenched his jaw, and Dan turned his eyes up to the ceiling and took in a deep breath.

"_God_," she continued, looking back and forth between them. "I have no idea what's going on between you two, but I think we can all agree that isn't the time or place for it, okay?"

"No—you're…you're right," Dan acceded. "We're here for Blair. And…Chuck," he added with a hint of reluctance.

"We won't fight anymore," Nate assured Serena.

"Thank you," Serena said in an emphatic voice.

There was a brief pause.

"And who the hell is _Wendy_, anyways?" she asked.

**—**

"Hey, sis," she heard Chuck murmur sleepily into the phone. "You back already?"

Blair guessed that he was still lying in bed. She knew she was correct when she heard him let out a little groan that quickly turned into a yawn—the noise he made when he was stretching both of his arms out over his head, hands interlocked at the fingers and turned up at the palms. He always did that when he was just beginning to wake up.

God, what she would give to be able to climb into bed with Chuck right now. Lay her head down on his chest, and inhale the scent of him as his hand caressed her back…

Over the past few days, the sharp, jabbing guilt-pangs in Blair's chest had given way to a dull, ever-present ache. A _lack, _one that she felt even more keenly when she heard the hint of affection in Chuck's voice—and a sickening sensation in her stomach when she reminded herself that it wasn't intended for her.

"Hey, did you manage to score me that hash?" Chuck added, suddenly sounding much more alert.

She was reluctant to speak. Because as soon as she did, she knew that his voice was going to change.

"Chuck—" She hesitated. "It's not Serena. It's me."

There was a slight pause—and then she heard him exhale through his nose in an impatient way.

"Blair, what do you want?" he asked icily.

"Isn't it obvious?" she said, almost losing control of her voice, which rose to a high pitch by the end of the sentence. "To apologize."

"_Really_," Chuck remarked laconically. "Whatever for?"

"Chuck, _don't_—please," she entreated. "I can't—I can't even begin to tell you how sorry I am."

"Sorry for _what_, Blair?"

Blair's breath hitched. She tried to speak, but the words seemed to be stuck in her throat.

She heard Chuck let out a frustrated breath. "If you can't even say it out loud," he said in a bitter voice, "…then how exactly do you expect me to forgive you?"

Blair swallowed and closed her eyes for a moment, steeling herself to respond.

"…sleeping with someone else," she muttered miserably. "I'm sorry for sleeping with someone else."

Her eyes threatened to overflow, and she shook her head to one side, as if she weren't going to allow herself the indulgence of tears.

"Hmm," Chuck hummed with grim satisfaction. "How was that, by the way?" he added in a sharp voice.

"_Wh_—" Blair fluttered her eyebrows, confused. "What do you mean?"

"How was the _sex_?" Chuck enunciated, ending the last syllable on a hiss. "I was just wondering about that—you know, _idly_, the other day. Was he as good as you remembered?"

"Chuck, don't do this," Blair pleaded, beginning to feel a nauseous churning in the pit of her stomach.

"Did you go down on him?"

"Chuck—" Blair paused for a moment. She knew that this line of interrogation was a trap, but she couldn't make the situation seem even worse than it actually was. "No, I didn't," she declared truthfully.

"Did he go down on you?"

Blair opened her mouth. Then she closed it, and blinked her eyes a couple of times, sending one shameful tear tracing down her cheek and around the curve of her jaw line.

"_Well_," Chuck said, clearing his throat. "Glad to hear it was _worth it_."

"It _wasn't_ worth it," Blair immediately choked out. "I feel so terrible, Chuck….I can—I can barely even _breathe_ when I think about what I did to you—

"Blair—"

Blair realized that he was trying to cut her off, but she persisted—in a voice so impassioned that it left her nearly breathless.

"I know how much I hurt you," she said. "But please believe me when I tell you that I _love you_…and I want to be with you. _Only_ you. From now on. And I'd do anything to make that happen…to make you believe in me again, trust me again..."

She sniffed, and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. "I just can't lose you," she admitted, her voice cracking.

On the other end of the line, there was a prolonged silence.

"Chuck?" Blair asked in a desperate voice. "_Chuck_?"

"_Blair_—" Chuck finally said. His voice was saturated with pain. "Do us both a favor. Just…just let it go."

"What do you mean, _let it go_?" Blair said dumbly, unable to process what she was hearing.

"I mean—let _us_ go."

Blair felt sick to her stomach. Leaning over the side of the bed, she clutched her abdomen with her arm and took a couple of quick breaths. "You're not saying what I think you're saying," she said in a half-whisper, righting herself.

She heard him sigh into the receiver.

"It's over, Blair," he said in a quiet voice.

"Chuck, don't say that," she begged.

"It's over," he repeated.

Blair pressed her hand to her mouth and let out an inarticulate, wounded sound.

"Please don't try to call me again," Chuck said in a quick rasp.

"Chuck…" she choked out, forcing his name through her constricted throat.

But she heard nothing—only the void of complete silence. Turning the phone over with a sense of dread, she glanced down at its screen.

There was only a line, blinking. 2 minutes, 11 seconds. Call ended.

**—**

Several minutes later, when Blair emerged from the spare bedroom and reentered the living area, everyone looked up at her expectantly.

"Hey—how'd it go?" Nate asked eagerly.

The features of Blair's face began to move, fighting back tears—and finally she just pressed her lips together, shook her head, and made a helpless gesture with her hands.

"Oh, _B_," Serena said sympathetically, and held out her hand.

Blair silently joined her best friend on the couch, laying the cell phone in Serena's lap, and Serena put her arm around her Blair's shoulder and drew her closer to her.

Blair laid her head against Serena like a small, exhausted child.

"So, uh—" Dan began, after shooting Nate a pointed look (and fighting off a nearly overpowering urge to tell him _I told you so)._ "Does this mean we're back to the original plan?"

There was a brief pause.

"Yeah," Nate muttered.

"Yeah," Serena echoed.

Dan looked at Blair, as if to say that she had the final word.

"Guess it's unanimous," she confirmed weakly.

Dan nodded. "Okay."

He looked at Serena. "All right, van der Woodsen," he said determinedly. "Guess it's your turn up to bat."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Well, Nate's plan didn't work so well. Do you have hope for Dan's? Looks like Serena will be doing her part in the next chapter.**

**Let me know, and leave a review. ;)**


	12. A Lot to Lose and Betting High

**A/N: Another update for your reading pleasure. Again, a million thanks to all of my faithful reviewers. I promise that the angst will come to an end at some point! And sunshine and rainbows and limitless undying love will prevail in the end.**

* * *

><p>Blair Waldorf had introduced Dan Humphrey to the art of scheming. And after four years of mingling with the Upper East Side elite, it was hardly surprising that he'd developed a knack for it. His scheme was methodical. Psychologically savvy. And she'd especially admired how he'd recruited and set an agenda for every available ally.<p>

_Still_, she thought, as she pinned a black pillbox hat to the top of her perfectly wound up-do, there was one thing that gave his plan away as the work of a novice…however talented he might have proven himself to be.

It was too careful.

If there was one thing that she knew about scheming, it was this—you had to be willing to roll the hard six every now and then. Put everything on the line. Take a risk that might backfire—or yield a huge payback.

That's why she'd agreed to talk to Chuck.

It had backfired.

When she'd heard his harsh words echo in her head ("_It's over, Blair_"), she had wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed, pull the blanket over her head and cry herself to sleep. But she wasn't going to allow herself to do that, she determined, tightening her jaw.

In the face of true love, she wasn't going to give up. Even if the object of her affection were begging her to.

And she was going to level any obstacles remaining in her way.

After taking a moment to adjust the ankle straps on her slingbacks, Blair examined her reflection in the full-length mirror. She was dressed in a sleeveless black linen sheath. Its hemline hit her below the knee, obscuring the scabbed patch on her right leg.

She tugged her skirt down another inch and smoothed her dress along her sides, and gave her reflection a little nod of approval.

Blair Waldorf did not abide chinks in her armor. Especially not tonight.

After slinging a coral tote over her shoulder and cloaking her eyes with a pair of dark sunglasses, Blair marched down the hallway to the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby.

"Where to, Miss Waldorf?" her driver asked as he pulled away from the curb in front of her building.

"Central Park South," Blair said, as their eyes met in the rear-view mirror. "The block beside the duck pond."

It was time to take another risk.

**—**

"Sis. Can't say I was expecting you."

Chuck wasn't really dressed, exactly—he was wearing pajama bottoms and a matching dressing robe in dark burgundy silk, and he was holding a glass of scotch in his hand. But he was clean-shaven, and his elocution suggested that he was mostly sober, though there was a bit of a telltale glaze in his eyes.

Serena was relieved. From the looks of things, her adoptive brother was doing much better than she'd expected.

"Chuck," she said affectionately, and moved forward to embrace him.

He tensed up underneath her arms, but he allowed her to hug him for a moment or two before pulling away from her uncomfortably.

"Looks like Morocco treated you well," he said, not really looking her in the eyes. "How are Eric and Lily?"

"Good," she responded warmly. "We missed you, though."

Chuck lifted his glass of scotch to his lips. "_Right_," he mumbled in a non-committal tone.

"Eric said that we should have brought along a cardboard cut-out of you for pictures," Serena went on, shooting him a sunny smile. "Since you said you couldn't come. He thought it would be the next best thing."

Chuck's eyes widened slightly at this comment, as though he wasn't sure whether to believe it or not.

"Can I sit?" Serena asked in a cheery voice, and quickly stepped towards the living area.

"Actually, I'm expecting—" Chuck began, and then paused as she plopped down onto the sofa. "Someone," he finished in a grumble.

Serena crossed her legs and set her purse on the cushion beside her, ensconcing herself in her seat.

"You want a drink?" Chuck asked flatly, obviously resigned to Serena staying for a while.

"White wine, if you have it," Serena said over her shoulder, fluffing out her hair with her fingers.

"I have scotch, and…more scotch," he replied, surveying his monochrome bar.

"Scotch it is," she immediately returned.

Serena didn't have much of a taste for scotch. Actually, she kind of hated it. But Chuck obviously wasn't too keen on talking to her, and having a drink with him might loosen him up a bit.

He poured her a glass and handed it to her, settling into the armchair opposite her and regarding her with an impatient expression. After taking a tentative sip, she looked up at him.

"Why are you—/Chuck, I'm here because—" they said simultaneously.

They stopped, and Serena let out an embarrassed little laugh.

"Look, Serena," Chuck said, after inhaling sharply through his teeth and assuming his most standoffish manner. "I'm not in the mood for small talk. Let's just cut to the chase. Make your little plea for Blair and then let's wrap things up."

"I just thought you might want to talk," Serena said weakly.

"There's nothing to talk about," Chuck replied with a sharp shrug of his shoulders, his eyes evading hers.

"Well…" Serena hedged. She leaned forward and laid her hand on his knee. "When there is…and there _will be_…I want you to know that I'm here for you," she finished in a sincere voice.

"Please," Chuck snorted, jerking his knee away from her hand. "You're not here for me. You're here for _Blair_."

"No, I'm n—" she started to protest, but he cut her off.

"You think I don't know that you were behind that little phone stunt?"

"She just wanted to talk to—"

"Like I said," he interrupted. "There. Is. Nothing. To talk about." He tilted his glass up to his lips, and drank.

Serena pushed several strands of her wild blonde mane back from her face, and gave him a look that was equal parts frustration and tenderness.

Chuck's eyes floated over her face for a moment, and he released a pained sigh, sounding as though something inside him had broken.

"She slept with someone else," he went on, his voice modulating up and down in spite of his obvious attempt to keep it steady.

"She's forgiven you _a lot, _you know," Serena said, considering that it might be wise to remind Chuck of his tumultuous history with Blair.

"I never cheated on her," Chuck said in a low voice, staring at the coffee table. "I…never would have done that."

"Well, you would have been perfectly happy for her to cheat on you at one point," Serena returned without thinking. "As long as it meant keeping the Empire for yourself. And she forgave you for that, too."

She was half-expecting Chuck to lash out at her in anger. But instead he paused for a moment, a pensive expression appearing on his face.

"Yeah. And now—" he let out a strange-sounding laugh. "The Empire doesn't even matter to me anymore. It's funny, how you think that some things are so important at the time…and then later, they turn out to not be important at all."

There was a pause.

With a growing sense of unease, Serena tried to process what Chuck had just said. He couldn't mean that…Blair wasn't important to him anymore. Could he?

"Blair's not like that, Chuck," she said in a small voice. "You know she's not."

"Not now," Chuck acceded. "But six months from now…a year…who knows?"

Serena's heart sank.

Chuck's phone buzzed in his pocket. He picked it up, glanced at its face and denied the call with a frown.

Serena took advantage of the pause to rack her mind for something to say. Something that would shift the subject away from Blair. Something that would make Chuck feel safe. Something that would let him know that she had come to care for him in a way that she never would have predicted when they first became stepsiblings.

But before she had the chance to say another word, the elevator dinged, and she turned her head and watched in disbelief as a stranger sashayed into the room.

It was a gorgeous redhead in a fuchsia jersey dress and suede pumps. She was looking down at an iPhone that she held in one hand, and swinging a little metallic suitcase in another.

Frowning with concentration, she blew a loose wave of hair away from her face, busying herself with her phone. Then she looked up, and her gaze fell on Serena.

Their eyes locked for a standstill moment.

"Oh, Jesus H.," the redhead groaned in evident exasperation. "Are you in one of _those_ moods again? If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times—_I_ bring the other girl."

"This is my sister," Chuck said in a testy voice.

The other woman gaped at Serena. "Oh," she peeped.

Chuck's phone chimed again, and he fished it out of his pocket and looked at it, plainly annoyed. "Nathaniel won't stop calling me," he muttered, rising to his feet. "Excuse me for a moment."

He stalked off down the hall towards the bedroom, leaving Serena and the other woman looking at each other uneasily.

"You must be Wendy," Serena ventured, breaking the awkward silence.

The redhead nodded. "And you're Serena."

"You know who I am?" Serena was surprised.

"Of course I do," Wendy returned in a guarded voice.

Another pained pause fell between them.

Wendy bit her lower lip and nodded towards the balcony. "Join me for a cancer stick?" she suggested brightly.

"Well, I only ever smoke when I'm—" Serena looked down at the scotch in her hand. "Drinking. _Sure_," she sighed, and rose from the sofa.

As soon as she stepped out onto the balcony, Wendy lit up a smoke and blew it out in a quick stream, looking a little anxious. She handed an unlit cigarette to Serena and pressed the lighter into her palm.

Serena lit her cigarette with a far less experienced hand, and then looked up at the other woman.

She opened her mouth to speak, but words failed her. How exactly were you supposed to ask someone if she were a…lady of the night? No matter how polite you tried to be, it was bound to come out sounding rude.

"Are…how…um…" she floundered.

"Okay, _okay_," Wendy groaned in impatience. "I already know what you're going to ask. And the answer's yes."

"How long have you…" _Been doing Chuck for money?_ Jesus, there had to be a way to skirt around the sordid details.

"...been seeing Chuck?" she settled.

Wendy thought it over for a moment. "Four years or so. Off and on."

Serena gaped at her. "Four _years_?" she said, incredulous. "What about _Blair_?"

"Like I said, it's _off and on_," Wendy repeated. "When he's _off_ with Blair, he's _on_ with me. And vice-versa. There's never been any overlap, as far as I know."

Serena shook her head, trying to wrap her mind around this. "I just…had no idea that Chuck had another woman in his life," she said. "Wo_men_, sure, but…I never would have thought he had anything…deeper going on."

"Sweetie, believe me, there's nothing deep about it," Wendy remarked in a wry voice. "Our relationship is strictly business."

"How can you possibly be with someone for that period of time and not have feelings for them?" It seemed unfathomable to her.

Wendy gave a sharp shrug. "Easy," she remarked blithely. "Chuck doesn't have feelings for me, and I don't have feelings for anyone."

Serena's eyes scanned the other woman's face. "I don't believe that," she said. "I mean…how can you get by like that? Without anybody?"

Wendy took a prolonged drag on her cigarette, thinking it over. "Day by day," she said, without no hint of sadness in her tone.

Turning her back, she began to survey the orange streaks of sunset over the darkening Manhattan cityscape. "Chuck's messed up right now, Serena," she offered.

"He's doing better that I thought," Serena countered.

Wendy turned around and shot her a glance. "You sure about that?"

"Well…yeah." She was starting to feel defensive. "I mean, Dan told me how messed up he was the other night. I was expecting a lot worse."

Wendy inhaled and exhaled. "This is worse," she confirmed.

"What do you mean? I mean, he's obviously a bit buzzed, but at least he seems to know what's going on."

"Look—I don't know if you've realized it by now, but there are a couple of phases to a full-blown Chuck breakdown. There's the drugged-up oblivion. And then there's self-destruction mode. That's where we are now."

"I thought that _was_ the drugged-up oblivion…" Serena murmured, troubled.

Wendy shook her head. "He called me this afternoon," she went on. "Wanted an appointment. I told him it was too short notice, but he offered to pay me an obscene sum of money. And when I told him okay, he requested….some unusual things. I mean—" (her voice dropped into a confidential tone) "—he's always had his kinks, but this is a whole 'nother ballpark."

Serena eyed the small metallic suitcase that Wendy had set down on the floor of the balcony. "Umm. I have a feeling I might regret asking this—" she began warily, "but what's in the box?"

"Oh honey," Wendy said sympathetically. "If you have to ask, you don't wanna know."

"Is he…going to be _okay_?" Serena asked, alarm evident in her tone.

Wendy looked at her, her mouth twisting downwards. "I know Chuck, Serena. And right now he's shutting down. Convincing himself he doesn't care about anybody, anything…I wouldn't be surprised if he left the country within the week."

"That's not possible," Serena protested. "He's got the Empire party coming up."

"He'll be gone the day after," Wendy grimly replied. "Take my word for it."

"He _can't_!" she insisted. "Blair's coming. She wants to get him back."

Wendy stared at Serena for a moment.

"Well, I hope to God that works out," she muttered, lifting her cigarette to her mouth.

For a moment Serena thought Wendy was being sarcastic, but then realized she was absolutely sincere.

"I…didn't know you were a fan of Chuck and Blair," she said, trying to process this strange new information.

"Are you kidding?" Wendy replied. "Without Blair, he's a category 5 disaster. But with her, he's…" She paused and searched for words. "He's like a _real person_," she said. "He's _better_. Believe me, I would love it if they just rode off together into the sunset and he never called me again."

She dragged on her cigarette. "I mean, you think I _like_ babysitting him during his breakdowns?" she muttered. "It's the worst."

"Then…" Serena blinked. "Why do you do it?"

"Because I owe him," she griped. "He did me a favor once, a long time ago, when I was at my lowest. So I can't tell him no when he's at his. It wouldn't be right."

She looked at Serena with a hint of dark amusement. "I do have a sense of honor," she said. "Twisted though it may be."

A sudden inspiration seized Serena.

"You can help us," she realized, looking at the other woman with wide eyes. "Get Blair and Chuck back together again. You'd be doing him a favor, and then he'd be _better_, and…" She trailed off, and looked up at Wendy beseechingly.

Wendy gaped at her for a moment, and then let out a skeptical laugh.

"No no no," she said, waving her hand. "No way. It'll never work. The second I try to tell Chuck how to live his life is the second our little business relationship is over."

"How can you know that?" Serena pleaded. "You haven't even tried."

"I know _people_," Wendy said, "and I know my clients. They don't want me prying into their personal lives, and I don't particularly enjoy dealing with their drama, either. The second it starts getting personal-" (she made a swooping gesture with one hand) "-I'm gone. That's why I never get involved if I can help it."

Serena's eyes narrowed. "Well, whether you like it or not, you already _are_ involved," she told the other woman in a sharp tone. "I mean—you've known Chuck for years, you know about everyone who's important in his life…you even know what his _breakdowns_ are like." She let out a frustrated breath. "Don't you think have some responsibilities here?"

Wendy regarded her, nonplussed. "He gives me money to _have sex_ with him, Serena," she said. "My job is to get him off, not bring him to Jesus."

Serena flung her hardly-smoked cigarette off the balcony. Then she took a deep breath, and tried for a more persuasive tone.

"Look," she began, "I know you claim you don't care about Chuck, but I'm sure you don't want to see anything _bad_ happen to him. Just help us this once. _Please_."

_"_No,_"_ Wendy insisted. "It's not my place, Serena! I don't tell my clients what to do with their lives. I just do my fucking job—no pun intended."

Serena tried to swallow, but her throat was burning. She couldn't tell if she was angry, disappointed, or both.

Averting her gaze, Wendy pulled on her cigarette, and released a long stream of smoke from her lungs.

"Trust me," she finally said. "I'm not the one to help him."

"No, you _won't_ help him," Serena threw back. "There's a difference."

"Ladies, ladies," they heard Chuck's voice drawl behind them. "I hate to interrupt this…bonding session, but we all have places to be, people to _do_…et cetera."

He sauntered up to them, twirling a scotch diffidently in one hand.

"You—_inside_," he ordered Wendy. "And you—"

He took Serena by the elbow and began to guide her off the balcony. "_Outside_," he finished in a slightly gentler tone.

As Chuck pulled her towards the door, Serena glanced back over her shoulder at Wendy—who, after shooting her a look that was almost apologetic, headed down the hallway towards the bedroom, suitcase in hand.

"You think holing up with a prostitute is going to make you forget about _Blair_?" Serena shot at Chuck, upset. "I would have thought you'd figured out by now that that _doesn't work."_

"Well, Wendy is _very_ talented," Chuck smarmed, as they quickly approached the elevator and came to a stop in front of it. "Did you know she can put her entire fist in—"

"Oh god, would you stop with the pervitude already!" she snapped at him. "We both know it's nothing but a front. You're _heartbroken_. Just admit it, and let Blair apologize to you, and then you two can move on from this. I _know_ you can."

She stopped for a moment, and looked at him with wide imploring eyes. "You _have_ to," she finished in a trembling voice.

Chuck looked at her and took in a slow, deep breath, as if he realized that nothing less than perfect honesty would convince Serena to go away.

"_Fine_," he said, with a slight hitch in his usual drawl. "I admit it. I'm _heartbroken_." (His voice rasped on the last word, infusing it with mockery.) "But I'll be _moving on_ on my own."

He slammed his fingers into the elevator button.

"If you could just talk to her, just _once_—" she persisted.

"Would you _stop_," Chuck interrupted angrily. "This isn't a sitcom. One conversation isn't going to fix this."

Serena opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off again.

"Blair _betrayed_ me, Serena," he said, struggling to keep control of his voice. "_Blair_. And if she can betray me…_anyone_ can. After all, she was the only person in this world who really, truly loved me. Or at least that's what I _thought_."

"That's not true, Chuck," Serena protested, tears springing into her eyes. "_I_ love you."

Chuck's eyes widened in shock and amazement. His lips parted, fumbling for words…but none seemed forthcoming.

"_Nate_ loves you," she went on, impassioned. "_Lily_ loves you. _Eric_ loves you. And more than anybody—more than everyone else _combined_—_Blair_ loves you. She's so torn up about what happened, Chuck…if you could just see her, just _once_, you'd—"

"_No_—that's where you're wrong," Chuck scoffed, having apparently regained his ability to speak during Serena's litany. "She doesn't love me. She doesn't want me _back_. She just doesn't want to be the one who fucked things up for good. Because, let's face it," he said in the bitterest voice she'd ever heard, "we were all expecting it to be _me_.

"Now if you'll excuse me, _sis_," he continued, "I pay Wendy by the hour, and she's very expensive. I'm sure you understand."

He gave Serena a little push into the open elevator, and, surprised, she tottered into it.

Undaunted, she whirled around, not about to leave without one final word.

"I don't think—" she began.

"I don't _care_," Chuck cut her off in an acidic voice, and pushed the "door close" button. Serena watched helplessly as the twin sliding panels slid together, blocking him from view.

For a moment, she planted her face in her hands, overcome with emotion. Then she pushed her hair back from her face and reached for her phone with trembling fingers, and hit the first number on speed dial.

"Hey," Dan's eager voice rang into her ear. "How did it—"

"We need to change up the plan," Serena interrupted. "The stakes are even higher than we thought."

There was a pause, during which Dan seemed to be processing this. "You, uh, wanna…meet up for some curry?" he suggested. "The usual place?"

Serena thought it over for a moment. Then she caught a glimpse of her determined face in the mirrored elevator panel.

"I'll see you in ten," she muttered, and snapped her phone shut with a click.

**—**

"Blair."

Mack spoke her name without any emotion, but she could read the surprise in his eyes—even though he was wearing a pair of square-framed black glasses that made them appear smaller than usual.

"Hey," Blair said in a clipped voice.

She wasn't sure how she'd even remembered where his apartment was. But she'd found her way back easily—and pressed her finger into the square button by his name after only a few seconds' hesitation.

It was so strange, seeing him again. In spite of all the havoc he'd brought into her life, she still couldn't bring herself to hate him. And she couldn't figure out why.

Mack rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. "Come in," he said after a moment of deliberation, turning to the side and gesturing with one hand towards his living room.

Blair stepped into his apartment, feeling a nervous twitch in her stomach. "I didn't know you had bad eyesight," she said to him over her shoulder, after searching for a moment for something neutral to say.

"Oh, I see up close just fine," Mack said with a hint of humor. "It's just far away that's the problem."

He closed the door and gestured towards the sofa. "You want to sit down?" he offered.

"No, I'll stand, thanks," Blair said in a crisp voice, setting her purse down on top of the coffee table and automatically crossing her arms over her chest.

Mack let out a nearly inaudible laugh. "Well. I think I know what that means," he muttered.

He took a few paces across the room, widening the distance between them, and leaned against the doorframe leading to the hallway. He shoved his hands in his pockets, and was silent for a moment.

Then he looked up at her. "You're here to tell me to fuck off, aren't you?" he said in a half-joking tone.

"Not in so many words," she returned in half-murmur, puzzled by his manner.

"Well, 'fuck off' is only two words, Blair," Mack said, his lips pulling into a pained sort of smile.

Blair regarded him with a tinge of surprise. She'd known that coming to see him was a risk, and she'd prepared herself for the worst-case scenario. Mack making a passionate declaration of his feelings for her. Pointing out that her boyfriend didn't even want her anymore. And refusing to let her go.

But the mood that was hovering over the room right now told her that something else was afoot. It felt…stilted. Somber. As if something between them had died.

"I was thinking more along the lines of 'stop,'" she ventured.

Mack locked eyes with her, and waited for her to speak again.

"Stop trying to see me," Blair continued, her voice growing more resolved with every word she spoke. "Stop tracking me on Gossip Girl. Stop hassling my friends. And stop trying to convince me that everything would be sunny for me if I just gave up on Chuck and dated you instead. Because I'm never, _ever_ going to do that."

She looked at him with steely eyes. "Are we clear?" she finished, her voice slightly trembling.

Turning his gaze to the floor, Mack stuck his tongue into his cheek. Then he lifted his head and nodded at her.

"Good," Blair declared, relieved, and bent down to pick up her purse. "In that case, I don't expect that I'll be seeing you again."

"Whoa—wait a second, Blair," Mack quickly said, removing his hands from his pockets and holding them out in an unthreatening way. "I'd really like to say something to you…before you go."

A little wrinkle appeared between Blair's eyebrows. "Mack, there's nothing you could say to me to make me change my mind," she said, surprised that he would even try his hand at persuasion after her little speech.

"I realize that," Mack said gently.

After a moment or two of consideration, Blair set her purse back down on the table, arranging her posture in a way that indicated that she was willing to listen for a minute.

Well, more like…thirty seconds. Or ten, if he started lobbing platitudes at her.

Mack took a deep breath and let it out. It seemed for a moment that he wasn't sure how to begin.

"It's just…I've been feeling pretty shitty about what happened," he finally admitted, his cheeks flushing red.

Blair's lips parted slightly. She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting, but it certainly wasn't a confession of guilt.

"I…" she began, and cleared her throat. "I don't get it. It seemed like…Dan told me you were pretty clear about your intention to…pursue something."

Pursue _me_, she mentally corrected.

Mack's cheeks reddened even more. "Uh—yeah," he replied, looking embarrassed. "I did say that. But…" He leaned against the doorframe and let his eyes roam across the ceiling, searching for a way to begin.

"Okay, here's the thing…" he started, evidently having settled on an explanation. "I, uh, used to go to Mass every Sunday. Rain or shine. And I always took communion. Because, when I was a kid, I _had_ to, or my mom would think that I had some mortal sin weighing down my soul. So…I've got this habit I can't seem to shake. On Saturdays—I always start prepping for confession.

"I mean—it's funny," he continued with an ironic smile. "I haven't set foot inside a church in four years. Not since Tez's funeral. But every Saturday, without fail—" He made a wiggling motion with his hand next to his temple. "I get this...itch. And I think about the past week. How I've failed. How I've _sinned_.

"_Well_," he exhaled. "I think this was one for the record books."

Blair stared at him in shock. _This isn't an act_, she realized. _He really does feel bad_.

Well, she certainly had a history of dallying with men who weren't who they claimed to be. Two royals in commoner's clothes…and even the infamous playboy Chuck Bass had turned out to be a romantic at heart.

Still, leave it to her to have an affair with a closeted Christian.

"As soon as I kissed you, I knew that it was wrong," Mack went on, staring into the space ahead of him in an unfocused way. "But…I guess I just always felt like there was something really special about you. From about…two minutes into our first conversation. I mean—I'll be honest with you—you're not the first woman I've picked up at a bar since Tez died. I've had a lot of one-night stands over the past three years. It's not something I'm proud of…"

Blair frowned, but she wasn't exactly surprised. After all, if memory served, the guy did have a pretty stellar game.

"But _you_—" he continued after a short pause, his eyes flicking upwards to meet her gaze. "You were the first woman I'd met who was just so…_open_ with me. Honest. Vulnerable. And something inside me just _clicked, _and I guess I…well, I seized upon you." He laughed at himself, rubbing the back of his head. "I was just completely infatuated. And today I've been asking myself why, out of all of the women in the world, I decided that _you_ were the one for me. After meeting you _once_. And today I realized what it was."

He looked at her and gave a sad shrug of his shoulders. "You were brokenhearted. Just like me."

Blair felt a twisting sensation underneath her breastbone.

Mack was right. On the night they'd met, she'd also felt that they shared some kind of deep connection. But it wasn't affection. It wasn't even attraction.

It was pain.

They had reached for each other, but inside they'd been crying out for someone else. Otherwise they would never have clung to each other so tightly.

The second time she'd slept with him, she hadn't been crying. She'd been _screaming_. Throwing a tantrum and stamping her foot against the ground. Conjuring up Chuck's image in her mind and spitting out the words "I'm not your property. _I don't belong to you."_

But she did. As soon as they were done and there was nothing left to distract her from her guilt, she had known it for a fact.

Mack had never really stood a chance of setting foot inside her heart.

"Who knows," Mack ruminated, looking down at the floor and drawing an invisible line with his foot. "Maybe there could have been something between us. If things had gone down differently."

Blair's eyes shifted over to one side. She knew better.

"But what happened last Sunday..." he went on, shaking his head. "It's not an honest way to begin a relationship. I mean, even when we were…you know," he broke off, his features twisting with guilt. "I—I don't think you looked me once in the eyes."

Blair lowered her gaze to the floor. She knew for a fact that she hadn't. She had kept her eyes closed nearly the entire time. As if it were some kind of magical spell that made her act of betrayal less real.

"It was probably the shittiest thing I've ever done in my life," Mack said in a voice inundated with self-reproach.

He looked so genuinely upset that Blair found herself at a temporary loss for words.

"Well…" she tentatively began. "Nate did punch you in the nose. Maybe God will forgo penance this time?"

Mack let out an involuntary laugh, and touched the bridge of his nose. "I deserved it," he said, his expression shifting back to a sober one almost instantly. "And I would have done the same thing for my best friend. In a heartbeat."

A silence fell between the two of them.

"Do you think you'll ever get over her?" Blair asked in a low voice.

Mack took off his glasses for a moment, and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. "I don't know," he admitted. "I don't know if it's the kind of thing…you ever really get over."

"She was the love of your life," she said slowly.

"She was," he confirmed, staring at the floor with pained eyes.

Blair took a deep breath. "Chuck's the love of mine," she declared, her voice full of emotion. "I mean," she went on hurriedly, "with him—things have always been complicated. And messy. And it scares me sometimes, how much I love him. How much I'd give up for him. But when I'm in his arms…"

She searched her mind for the right words. "I'm _home_," she said, realizing the truth of it as the sentence left her lips. "I'm…where I need to be. I know you don't think much of him, but if you could see the way he is with me…the way he _carries me_…you'd understand.

"I just can't lose him," she confessed, swallowing back a sob. "I know how much I screwed things up. How much I hurt him. But I just can't…give up."

Mack pressed his lips together and nodded his head several times.

"Well then," he exhaled, forcing out the words with obvious difficulty. "What the hell are you still hanging around here for?"

Blair was dumbstruck. Was he…telling her to go? To go to Chuck?

After taking a second to process his meaning, she felt her expression soften. She let out an audible sigh, and looked at him with glistening eyes, at a loss for words.

He looked up at her for a second, and then darted his eyes away, clearing his throat. "Go on, get out of here," he said in a not unfriendly way.

Before she could respond, he pulled himself away from his perch against the doorframe, and took a couple of steps towards her. Then he quickly handed her her purse and guided her by the elbow towards the door.

She got the sense that he was hurrying her out of his apartment before he had the chance to change his mind.

When he opened the door, they lingered there for a moment, not looking at each other. A few seconds elapsed, and neither of them spoke.

Blair opened her mouth, tried to say something, and failed. So she pressed her lips together, turned around, and took one step over the threshold.

She hesitated. And then turned back around to face him.

"I'm sure there's someone out there who'll make you happy again," she offered to Mack in a gentle voice. "It's just…not me."

Mack's mouth twisted into a bittersweet smile.

"Goodbye, Blair," he whispered, and touched his palm to her shoulder with restrained affection. And, setting a hand at the small of her back, he gave her a gentle push out of the door.

As soon as she heard it close behind her, Blair took a deep breath and slowly released it from her lungs.

Well. It seemed that her ex-lover was finally out of the picture.

_That_ risk had certainly paid off.

_On to the next_, she thought, adjusting the angle of her hat on her head and stepping towards the elevator.

And God help anyone who tried to stand in her way.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Better watch out, Manhattan. Blair Waldorf's got her game face on.**

**A million thanks to my kick-ass beta, Maribells. ;) I promise to craft a Blair/Chuck scene for you (and everyone else) in the next chapter.**

**As always, please read and review! :) Give me your predictions, predilections, etc. I love hearing back from you, reader of mine.**


	13. Need to be Redeemed

**Gossip Girl reporting for duty, boys and girls. And I've just gotten my hands on the guest list for the most anticipated party of the summer. The Hotel Empire celebrates its anniversary this Saturday night, and if you're living in 2011, you're so **_**this year, **_**children. In the Empire ballroom, the theme is 1961, so dig up a vintage gown and stock up on your Lucky Strikes. But I know one Upper East Side princess who won't be decked out like Grace Kelly come Saturday night...**

**That's right—B's on the outs with her prince again. What else could explain her glaring absence on the guest list? Better cinch those girdles a bit tighter, ladies—you just might win the attention of a very eligible Bass-chelor.**

In her pajamas, her face laced with a blue-clay purifying mask, Blair read the blast off her cell phone.

Her nostrils flared. Great. This was the last thing she needed.

Reaching into a drawer in her desk, she snatched out a stack of post-it notes. Wrote on them with a Sharpie in an urgent scrawl, and stuck them, one by one, onto the mirror above her vanity.

The one of top of the stack read, "5 days." She'd have to take it off and throw it away tomorrow morning, but she was nothing if not methodical.

Five days, four days, three days, two. One.

A countdown to the night when she'd win back the heart of the man she loved.

**—**

Tuesday. Four days.

Wrapping a towel tightly around his waist, Nate stepped out of the shower and walked over the bathroom mirror. Scrubbing off the condensation with his palm, he leaned forward to examine his reflection.

He let out a frustrated groan. The bruise encircling his left eye looked even worse than it had yesterday, and his cheekbone underneath was swollen and tender to the touch. And when he swiveled his torso sideways, he saw a red patch spreading across the tops of his shoulders.

No wonder the hot water had felt like needles on his skin.

"You look burnt," he heard Chuck say over his shoulder, and turned to see his friend leaning against the doorframe in a dressing gown, holding a glass of orange juice in his hand.

Nate noted his friend's bronzed skin with a touch of envy. "You don't," he grumpily returned.

"I don't burn, Nathaniel," Chuck said in a satisfied voice. "I _tan_. You know that."

They had spent the previous day sailing with Nate's father on the family yacht. And even though Nate had managed to keep Chuck away from the booze—claiming that the Archibalds kept nothing stronger than Michelob Ultra stocked on the Lady Anne—his best friend had been in an uncharacteristically cheerful mood. He had spent a good hour chatting with the Captain about current business opportunities in Singapore, and for some reason Nate couldn't entirely pinpoint, this gave him an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Nate Archibald wasn't like most of his friends on the Upper East Side. It probably had something to do with his parents' constant attempts to plan out his life for him, but he just wasn't the type to overthink things. He didn't have an agenda, didn't calculate his every move. He just kind of…_felt_ his way through his life.

And he wasn't feeling too optimistic right now about the prospects of keeping Chuck in Manhattan, much less reuniting him with Blair.

"Well, I'm glad _you_ had a good time," he muttered, dodging around his best friend and walking into his bedroom. Plucking a navy bathrobe from a hook, he wrapped it around his body and secured the tie at his waist.

Undeterred, Chuck sauntered into the room after him. "Too bad the red brings out that shiner," he continued. "How did you manage to walk into a door, anyways? Seems a bit clumsy for a college athlete."

Trying to ignore Chuck's obvious attempts to provoke him, Nate rolled his towel into a ball and shot it like a basketball towards an open hamper in the corner.

He missed.

"Perhaps I spoke too soon," Chuck murmured, eyeing the limp towel on the floor.

"Look, I didn't want to go into everything in front of my dad, okay?" Nate burst out, frustrated. "But I didn't walk into a door."

"I know," Chuck immediately returned. "You're a terrible liar."

Nate shot him a grouchy look.

"Let me guess," his best friend ventured in a low voice, after a quick sip of his juice. "You got a little too cozy with Serena, and Humphrey clocked you one." He squinted, examining the shadow around Nate's eye. "It's pretty impressive," he decided. "Humphrey must be hitting the gym lately…"

"It wasn't _Dan_, Chuck," Nate groused. As if Dan Humphrey could best him in a fistfight… "It was that guy."

Chuck blinked.

"What guy?" he said with forced nonchalance, swirling his glass of juice as if it were scotch.

"You know _what guy_. Mack. He was in the lobby of Blair's building. I saw him, and I walked up to him and punched him square in the nose. And then…well. I guess Serena was distracting me or something. Anyway, he got me back." He gestured towards his face. "_That's _how I got the black eye."

Stopping his glass mid-swirl, Chuck looked at Nate with surprised eyes.

"Why'd you do that?" he said.

"You know why, man," Nate replied, troubled that Chuck even had to ask. "Come on."

Chuck looked down at the floor, tensing his jaw. It was obvious that he was more than reluctant to talk about why.

Chuck couldn't even _think_ about Blair right now—that much was obvious, even to Nate. And even though he had pledged to help reconcile them, he couldn't help but think that the task was a hopeless one.

Maybe some things were just impossible to get over, he thought, and felt a fresh jolt of anger on Chuck's behalf.

For the sake of keeping the peace, Nate hadn't made a scene at the Waldorf penthouse the day before—but this had taken some effort. He had been _furious_ at Blair, and even more furious that no one was going to call her out for what she'd done.

He had thought about pulling her aside and giving her a piece of his mind—but, to be perfectly honest, he didn't know what he would have said to her. He wasn't good at confronting girls, especially his ex-girlfriend. He had always been a little intimated by her. He had never even _pretended_ to understand her. But he thought that Chuck did. It had always seemed like they, out of all the couples he knew, had something special between them. Something deep. Something _real_. And he saw red when he thought about how Blair had just thrown it all away by screwing around with some random guy.

After that kind of betrayal, he couldn't really blame his best friend for wanting to run.

He just didn't want to be one of things he left behind.

"I don't want you to go," he blurted out suddenly.

Chuck looked up at him, startled, and furrowed his brow. "What makes you say that?" he returned sharply.

"I heard the way you were talking to my dad," Nate said. "It sounded like you want to ditch all this. Move somewhere new."

Chuck looked at his feet. "So what if I do?" he said slowly.

Nate let out a frustrated sigh. "You're my best friend," he said, thinking that no further explanation was necessary.

He was wrong.

"I was your best friend in _high school_," Chuck said. "We got high. We talked shit. _That_ was the basis of our friendship."

"No, the basis of our friendship is that _we cared about each other_," Nate countered angrily, stung by Chuck's words. "Our families were out of the loop—they never seemed to notice when anything was wrong with us. But we watched out for each other. Took care of each other. I'd like to think that we still do. In spite of—"

He trailed off for a moment, reluctant to continue.

There was no denying that he and Chuck had grown more distant over the past few years. He'd thought that they'd be able to repair their friendship after he moved into the penthouse…but it just wasn't the same. He couldn't even remember the last time they'd gone sailing. Or played a game of basketball in the park. Or just spent a lazy afternoon together, smoking up and telling stupid jokes…

He had mentioned something about his fading relationship with Chuck to his mom just a few weeks ago, and she'd said that it was just part of growing older. "You figure out who your _true friends_ are," she'd said in that clipped voice of hers—no doubt longing for the day that her darling son's lifelong friendship with Chuck Bass would finally die.

Well—he wasn't going to let that happen. Chuck would do anything to help him if he were in a fix. Chuck had been there for him his entire life…and somewhere along the way, he had started taking him for granted.

He felt a surge of shame at the realization that he hadn't been a very good friend to Chuck in recent times. Sure—he had hightailed it to the airport as soon as he'd gotten off the phone with Wendy. And when he'd seen Mack in the lobby of Blair's building, he'd thrown a punch without pausing to think.

Still, it was the first time he'd done anything _real_ for Chuck in several years.

"In spite of everything," he finally settled. "We're still friends."

Chuck blinked. "Of course we are," he said, obviously out of sorts.

Nate let out a deep breath. "Look—I'd take more than a punch for you," he said in a low voice. "Remember that before you decide to go jet-setting around, okay?"

Chuck regarded him uneasily for a moment, an unreadable expression on his face.

"You should put some aloe on that sunburn," he muttered, and, nursing his juice, turned to leave the room.

**—**

Wednesday. Three days.

"What are you talking about, Humphrey?" Blair demanded, clearly irate. "How could it possibly be any worse?"

Dan opened his mouth. Then he turned to look at Serena, who was sitting cross-legged on the sofa beside him, and prompted her to speak with an upward dart of his eyebrows.

"Umm," Serena struggled. "Ahh..."

Desperate for help, Dan glanced across the room at Nate—who only tightened his jaw and sank down in his armchair like an angry child.

After receiving an energetic text from Blair on Sunday night, Dan had been relieved, thinking that she'd gotten some of her scheming mojo back. And so he had trusted that she would effectively direct the meeting that they'd scheduled for today.

Well, it had started out well enough. Blair had told them that she was 100% sure that Mack would no longer be a problem. She'd been vague about her reasons, but the surety in her voice was enough to convince Dan. He had smiled and nodded, unable to disguise his pleasure at the good news, and Serena had let out an audible sigh of relief. Nate, however, had just sat there, looking grumpy—probably disappointed that he wouldn't get the chance to impress Serena with his face-pummeling abilities anymore, Dan decided.

Then the meeting had taken a sudden downturn.

The next two items on the agenda were action reports from Serena and Nate, and, to Blair's obvious chagrin, their hedging accounts had made it clear that their efforts at diplomacy had been less than successful. And while she'd stopped short of saying that she'd been stupid to trust a matter of such importance to them, she'd nevertheless communicated—through grimace, sigh, and ample rolling of her eyes—that she was disappointed in their pathetic results.

The next item was the calamitous Gossip Girl blast from Monday night. After this sensitive topic was broached, Blair's frustration had escalated into an outright tizzy.

"Everyone knows that we broke up," Blair half-yelled at Dan. "If I crash the party, they're all going to be looking at me. Staring at me. _Laughing_ at me. It's going to be a disaster!"

She shook her head. "I've been thinking it over, and we need to figure out something else," she said, pacing back and forth across the living room rug. "Something less public. Something less…potentially humiliating."

"Whoa, wait a minute, Blair—" Dan said, incredulous. "You're saying…the plan is out?"

"Yes, Humphrey, that's what I'm saying," Blair replied in an acidic voice. "Obviously—" (she gestured towards Serena and Nate as if they were to blame) "—Chuck still hates me. If I show up at the party, I'm just going to make a spectacle of myself. And Blair Waldorf does not do spectacles!"

Nate knotted his hand into his hair and grumbled something under his breath.

"What's that, Nate?" Blair said, shooting him a petulant look.

"_Nothing_," Nate returned, glaring at her, and Blair recoiled from him, furrowing her brow in indignation.

Fortunately, Serena cut in before Blair could say something haughty enough to alienate everyone else in the room.

"Blair…" The blonde hesitated, looking at her friend's fraught expression. "It's just…if you want to tell Chuck how you feel…then the Empire party might be your last chance."

Blair's face twisted. "What are you trying to say?".

"It's just…" Serena nervously wound a strand of her blonde hair around one hand. "He's dropped some clues that…he might be leaving New York after the party. Permanently," she added in a reluctant voice.

Obviously rattled by this information, Blair turned back to Nate. "Is this true?" she demanded.

"Yep," Nate said shortly, making no attempts to disguise his impatience.

Dan frowned. Given the circumstances, Blair's hysterics were hardly surprising, but usually Nate remained calm in these kinds of situations. Maybe he was on his man-period or something…

"Blair, Dan and I were having dinner when the Gossip Girl blast dropped," Serena continued. "We knew that you might be…a little worried about it. But we talked about it, and we decided...there's no way around it, B. You have to talk to Chuck at the Empire party. It's now or never."

"Wait a second," Nate interrupted. "You're telling me that I spent Monday night trying to fix this mess…while you two were off on a _date_?"

Dan was taken aback by the sharpness of his tone. "It wasn't a _date_," he retorted, trying to hide his embarrassment. "It was a…meeting. To discuss the situation."

"God, Nate, can you forget about your epic pissing contest with Humphrey for one minute?" Blair griped. "This is not about you!"

"Oh, believe me, I _know_," Nate insisted in a suddenly vehement voice. "It's about you. ALL ABOUT YOU."

Dan and Serena gaped at him, and even Blair looked startled for a moment…before her features shifted into a combative glare.

"If you have something to say to me, Nate…now would be the time," she said in a tight voice, crossing her arms over her chest.

"_Okay_," Nate snapped. "We've been trying to help you, and we're been doing our best—at least, _I've _been doing my best," he corrected, shooting a pointed glance at Dan and Serena. "But none of us has, like a magical wand that we can wave around in the air and…magically fix things. So stop acting like we're the screw-ups here. _You're_ the screw-up.

"And yeah, _I get it,"_ he said in reaction to her offended look, "you're upset and heartbroken or whatever, but you're not the only one who's upset. I'm about to lose my best friend because _you_ cheated on _him_. So, sorry if I'm a little pissy right now, but I think I have the right to be."

During Nate's diatribe, Blair's expression slowly moved from resentment to shame back to resentment…and finally, to seething fury.

"You've got some nerve lecturing _me_ about cheating, Nate Archibald," she hissed between her teeth.

"I don't believe this," Nate groaned. "You're really going to bring _that_ up?"

For once, Dan agreed with Nate—probably because he'd noted Serena's obvious discomfort as soon as the word "cheating" had issued from Blair's lips. Her eyes had gone wide for a moment, and then she had pulled her knees to her chest and hugged them tightly with her arms.

"Why not?" Blair shrugged her shoulders sharply. "You slept with someone else when we were together—and not just someone else, my _best friend_. So forgive me if I point out that the pot's calling the kettle black."

"That was _high school_, Blair," he mumbled, shaking his head. "It was different."

"_How_?" Blair persisted. "How was it different? You think it hurt any less?"

"That's not what I'm saying—" Nate flailed for words.

"What are you saying, then?" she cried.

"You want to know?" Nate's voice rose to a feverish pitch. "Fine. We were _never going to end up together_. You were never going to be happy with me, and I was never going to be happy with you. We're too different—always have been, always will be."

Anger flashed in Blair's eyes. She seemed to be formulating a nasty reply, but Nate continued in an emphatic voice.

"You and Chuck….you…" He struggled to find the right words. "You're so much alike, you're so in tune with each other…" He pointed at her. "_You_ were going to end up together. You were always going to end up together. But you hurt him so much that he can't even deal with you anymore. He would have stayed with you through anything, but you betrayed him. You…you _decimated_ him. If you could see him now…" He shook his head angrily. "You screwed up something _real_, Blair. _That's_ the difference."

Dan shifted his gaze to Blair. A second's glance confirmed his suspicion that he should never have let things go this far. Her eyes were brimming with tears; her chin was trembling. It was obvious that Nate's words had cut her to the core.

God, he had to do something to salvage the situation. But what could possibly he say? He knew that Nate was right. And, judging from the devastated look on Blair's face, she knew that he was right, too.

"Nate—" Serena suddenly interjected.

They all turned to look at her, and, to Dan's surprise, she shakily rose to her feet.

"Look, everyone in this room—" (she made a small circling motion with her hand) "—we've all screwed up when it comes to each other. We've lied…gone behind each other's backs…and even when we've committed to each other we've gotten…distracted."

Her eyes fell on Dan, and then shifted away guiltily to Nate. "Nobody knows that better than I do," she said in a contrite voice.

"But we're still friends," she said, tossing her head back up. "And whenever anyone's in trouble, we've always rallied. We've always been there. And you know that if you were in a pinch, Blair would fight for you. No matter how upset she was with you."

Nate cleared his throat, and suddenly seemed compelled to look at the floor.

"So don't you dare give up on her now," Serena finished with a threatening edge to her voice. "Because I'm not giving up. Dan's not giving up. And if we have anything to say about it, Chuck's not giving up either. Because some things are worth too much to throw away. And our friendship is one of those things."

A loaded silence fell over the room for a moment.

Nate lifted his hand as if he were about to say something, and swallowed.

"I—" he started to say. A blush spread over his cheeks. "I'm sorry, Blair."

"No," Blair said in a burst, "_I'm_ sorry. I—"

She blinked back tears, and went on in a wavering voice. "This…what you're doing for me—it's more than I deserve."

"You would do the same for us," Serena said softly, and pulled Blair into an embrace.

Blair's breath hitched into a little sob against Serena's shoulder, but she caught herself before she let it out. "Damn straight I would," she mumbled, clasping her best friend tightly in her arms.

Serena looked at Dan over Blair's shoulder, and gave him a prodding look.

"Err, right," he said, clearing his throat. "So…back to the plan? Revamping, reevaluating…whatever it is we're doing to it?"

He glanced across the room at Nate, and, to his relief, saw the other man jerk down his head in a quick nod of assent.

And when he returned his gaze to Serena and once again caught her eye, he couldn't repress a smile that radiated admiration.

**—**

Thursday. Two days.

"You know…wh-what you said in there…it was really great," Dan offered, champing down his chopsticks on a spicy tuna roll.

"Well, I just knew I had to do _something_," Serena said modestly, wiping a trace of wasabi from her lips with a napkin. "I mean, as soon as Nate started laying into Blair—" (she shook her head) "—I was really worried for a minute there that the plan would just…fall apart, you know?"

"Oh, believe me, I know," Dan replied. "I was trying to come up with something myself…but what you said, it was like_—_" (he did a dead-on imitation of Nate)"_'_—_a magical wand__!_'"

Serena giggled.

"Seriously. It was just the perfect thing to say," Dan finished in an appreciative voice, dipping his sushi into a dish of soy sauce.

Smiling, Serena tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. She was accustomed to people telling her that she had pretty hair, a beautiful body, and a charming sense of style—she'd been hearing it her entire life. But she really preferred compliments on something she'd actually _done_.

Especially when they came from Dan Humphrey.

Usually he was her biggest critic, but lately…well, something about him was different. Last night, during one of their many animated discussions about Blair, Chuck, and Blair _and_ Chuck, he had remarked that she had a real knack for reading people's emotions. It was a talent he didn't possess, he admitted with a wince, and she'd been taken aback by his newfound sense of humility.

Maybe it was because she'd been feeling closer to him than she had in some time—or maybe it was just because she'd had a couple of drinks—but she had given him a spontaneous hug when they were saying goodbye. It was quick, awkward one-armed clasp…but it was still a hug. And even though she'd been trying to convince herself that she was imagining things, that he didn't really think about her _that way_ anymore, the look in his eyes afterwards…well, it had been enough to convince her otherwise.

Dan interrupted her train of thought with a quick, embarrassed cough.

"Um, Serena, I—I owe you an apology," he stuttered, averting his eyes for a moment. "The last time I saw you—I mean, before all this…before you went to Morocco, I mean—"

He sighed. "I was kind of being a dick," he finished.

"Oh, Dan, you—"

Serena cut herself off. Her immediate instinct had been to contradict him, but then she'd remembered their conversation about her English essay.

He actually _had_ been a dick.

"Your essay was good. _Really_ good," Dan corrected, with an upward motion of his eyebrows. "And…the only way I can explain my reaction is to say that I was…well, I guess I was jealous."

Serena blinked. "Why?" she asked, mystified.

Dan shrugged. "You figured out something before I did. Though…" He shot her a self-effacing smile. "I guess that's something that I'm going to have to get used to."

He was doing it again—he was looking at her the way he did the other night. It took her a moment to place the warm expression in his brown eyes…but then she remembered in a flash.

It was the way he used to look at her, junior year.

Before he found out about her wayward past and troubled present. Her tendency to make bad choices. Her impulsiveness.

Right now he was looking at her as if she were still his childhood crush. The girl of his dreams. And, for a moment, she lost herself in his gaze...

Then, in the same instant, they both realized that they'd been staring at each other in silence for some time, and they started in their seats and darted their eyes away. Dan cleared his throat and rubbed his fingers on his napkin, and she raised her glass of water to her mouth so quickly that the ice cubes bobbed against her lips.

"You know, you've been really great lately too, Dan," she said, after racking her brain for something to break the silence between them. "I mean, everything you're doing for Blair—I never would have thought you'd be so….I don't know." She let out a musical laugh. "Devoted to a cause?"

"Huh. More like a suicide mission," Dan muttered, taking a sip of his sake.

"Oh, don't say that," Serena protested. "We're back on track now."

"Thanks to _you_," Dan replied. "I was too—"

He was interrupted mid-sentence by the familiar chime of a Gossip Girl blast ringing out from the phone inside Serena's purse.

Dan darted his right hand into the pocket of his jeans. "_Shit_," he exclaimed, discovering his pocket empty. "I left my phone at the loft. Is it about Chuck and Blair?"

Serena scrolled down the face of her smart phone.

"It's a video of Chuck," she reported. "Come here."

Dan immediately pulled his chair around to her side of the table, and she pressed the play button on her screen.

It was a jerky, low-quality video, shot from a phone from the sidewalk in front of the Empire Hotel. There was Chuck, wearing an impeccably fitted suit, sauntering out towards a waiting limo. He was talking on his cell phone, and, straining her ears towards the phone, Serena could just make out what he was saying.

"Just come to the party. You'll probably meet some new clients. And, look, about the other night…"

He dropped his voice, and the rest of the sentence was impossible to hear.

Looking satisfied, Chuck put his phone in his pocket and continued towards the curb—until two skinny girls wearing Constance uniforms sprang out in front of him, causing him to take a step backwards in shock.

"Oh my God," Dan said, huddling so close to Serena that his shoulder rubbed against her bare upper arm. "It's mini-Blair and mini-Serena," he explained, seeing her questioning look.

Onscreen, in close-up, Chuck was eyeing the camera lens with obvious annoyance. "Ladies," he said to the two tweens in a crisp voice, and cleared his throat. "If you don't mind, I have places to be."

"What is _wrong_ with you?" mini-Blair squeaked at him off-screen.

Chuck cracked a wicked smirk. "Well, I _could_ tell you," he drawled, raising an eyebrow, "but that's hardly an appropriate conversation for small children. Excuse me."

The camera zoomed out, revealing a failed attempt at a side-step from Chuck—but the two girls blocked his path, glaring at him angrily.

"Don't tell me you and Blair Waldorf broke up again!" mini-Serena peeped, setting her hands on her hips. "You _just_ got back together!"

Dan and Serena shot each other vexed glances.

"You came all the way from Munchkinland just to ask me that?" Chuck asked impatiently. "Shouldn't you be off…I don't know. Singing little songs? Making lollipops?"

"We know you took her off the guest list," mini-Blair grumbled, undeterred. "It was on _Gossip Girl._ Why'd you do that?"

Chuck stared at them for a moment, hesitating.

"Blair Waldorf doesn't need to be on the guest list," he finally said, discomfort written all over his face.

"So you didn't break up?" mini-Serena exclaimed.

Chuck opened his mouth for a moment. Then, with surprising agility, he dodged past them into the safety of his limo and slammed the door shut behind him.

"You and Blair Waldorf _belong together_," the two girls bellowed after the limo, which pulled away from the curb with a jerk and drove off at quick clip.

Mini-Blair and mini-Serena joined hands and hopped up and down, squealing. "There's _hope_!" they cried together in a frenzy of delight.

The video abruptly cut to black.

Dan rubbed his face with one hand. "Huh. I'm not so sure about that," he said with some reluctance.

"What do you _mean_?" Serena replied in an incredulous voice. Inside, she was practically jumping with glee, just like her miniature counterpart.

"You heard what he said," Dan said, gesturing animatedly towards the screen. "Blair doesn't need to be on the guest list because they're not _together anymore_. That's what he means."

"But that's not what he _said_!" Serena countered. "He dodged the question. He's not ready to admit to the world that they broke up. This is a good sign, Dan," she insisted. "The mini-mes are right. There's _hope_."

Dan considered this for a moment. "Maybe you're right," he acceded.

"I _know_ that I'm right," Serena said in a voice of utter certainty.

Dan smiled at her. "You really do think that Chuck and Blair can work it out, don't you?" he said in a soft voice, laying his arm around her shoulders.

He was so close to her that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body.

"Well….if they can, anyone can," Serena said without thinking, distracted by his embrace.

It took her a couple of seconds to figure out that she'd meant to say it the other way around—"If anyone can, they can." But the startled expression on Dan's face was enough to make her realize that she'd said something very different.

"If they can, anyone can," she'd declared. Including her, and—

She felt her cheeks grow hot.

"Dan—" she began.

"Serena—" he said simultaneously.

And then they caught themselves, and stared at each other with wide-opened eyes.

Dan let out a short laugh.

"Serena…I…" He licked his lips. "I really want to kiss you, like, right now…" he admitted. "But I just ate, like, the most ridiculously spicy mayonnaise, and—"

"I don't care," Serena whispered, and leaned forward to press her lips against his.

**—**

Friday. One Day.

Blair was ripping dresses out of her closet and flinging them onto the floor of her bedroom in a haphazard stack. By the time she was finished, her closet was almost empty, and the naked clothes hangers were jostling against each other like wind chimes.

If she could just find the perfect dress for the Empire anniversary party, then maybe, just maybe, she could stop the echo of Nate's cruel words in her ears.

_You screwed up something _real_. That's the difference._

Sinking down onto her knees next to the pile of dresses, Blair began to peel through them, frantically searching for something, _anything_, in an appropriate cut. She needed a designer dress with a sixties flair—but not _too_ sixties, she knew, or she'd be wearing a costume, not haute couture. Above all, she needed something in a color palette that wouldn't clash with…whatever Chuck was going to wear.

Not that she knew what that was…

Wrinkling her nose at the sleek Chanel shift on the top of the pile, she reached down to cast it aside—and stopped when she spied a familiar hemline peeking out underneath it.

Slowly, almost reverently, she pushed the shift away with her palm, revealing a diaphanous silk dress in the color called "ashes of roses."

It wasn't suitable for the party, of course. It was far too romantic for that, with its low-cut bodice, drop-waist, and Edwardian detailing. Not to mention the cut-away skirt in the front, or the long, fluttery trail that hung down behind.

She had only worn it once. It was just over a year and a half ago, during her first semester at NYU. They had opera tickets that night…

Stroking the soft silk with her hand, Blair was suddenly flooded by a memory.

"_Chuck," she gasped, glimpsing him behind her in the mirror. "You startled me."_

_He didn't speak, and she felt his dark eyes roaming over her reflected image._

"_Turn around," he finally murmured._

_She could read his face like a secret language that only she knew. A slight parting of his lips…an almost imperceptible flutter of his eyelashes._

_He was pleased with her appearance. No—more than pleased. He was _awestruck_._

_Swiveling her neck, she eyed him over her bare shoulder, smirking indulgently. "Like what you see?" she teased him, knowing that she was his master at the moment._

"_Turn around," he repeated with muted intensity._

_Blair compliantly turned on her heels. Slowly, fluidly. Like a porcelain ballerina in a music box._

_His eyes skimmed down her neck to her décolletage—and down even further to the revealed length of her legs, and over the long trail that hit the floor in loose waves at her feet._

"_You look—" He began, licked his lips, and was again silent._

_She felt her lips curl into a soft smile. "I look—what?" she greedily asked._

_He edged closer, and she felt her pulse begin to quicken. Even now, even after months of making love to him day after day and night after night, the proximity of his body never failed to send a wave of heat washing over her._

_It always felt dangerous. As though she could drown in him if she weren't careful enough._

"_You look…" He trailed off, his eyes playing over the swell of her breasts. "Like a woman who isn't going to make it to the opera tonight," he finished in a low tone, lifting his hands to the sides of her waist._

"Oh_," she sighed in mock disappointment, lowering her gaze to the floor. Even though she knew she was only going keep it up for a moment, pretending to resist him took considerable effort. "But I _so_ enjoy the opera," she continued with a pout, trailing her finger down his lapel._

"_Not as much as you're going to enjoy this," he countered in a whisper that died as soon as his lips met hers._

_By now she knew all of Chuck's kisses well. There was the kiss that was barely a kiss at all, an affectionate brush of the lips that he gave her mornings before he untangled his body from hers and rose to dress himself. Then there was the slow, seductive massaging motion that he used to ply open her mouth when she was readying to leave and he wasn't yet ready to say goodbye. And there was the aggressive thrust of his tongue after they'd made up after a spat, interrupted by soft bites of her lower lip between his teeth._

_There was the proud imprint of his lips against her cheek when they met in public. He used it to claim her as his woman. His love._

_There was the intense, grateful kiss that he gave her when he was upset and she was comforting him, as if he were a dying man and she his only cure._

_But this—this was her favorite kiss. His mouth was so hot—it was always so hot—but there was something about the controlled motion of his tongue that betrayed the fact that he was struggling to restrain himself._

_It always left her weak in the knees._

_One of his hands reached up to curl his fingers into her hair; the other curved around her to the small of her back and pulled her body tightly into his. When she heard his breath grow ragged—and felt the telltale hardness in the front of his trousers press into her lower abdomen—she knew that he was dying to take her to bed._

_But he was going to take his time. Savor every second._

_He slowly undressed her, beginning with her feet—he knelt on the floor and slid off her shoes, one by one. Then he rolled down her sheer stockings, pausing to kiss every inch of revealed flesh along the way. She trembled when his lips grazed her inner thighs, close, so close to the triangle of lacy fabric at the parting between them—then trailed down to plant loving kisses on the inside of her knees._

_Blair let out an involuntary whimper of disappointment._

"_Feeling a little impatient?" Chuck murmured into her skin. He darted his tongue into the cleft behind her left knee, and she felt another desperate throb between her legs._

"_Can you blame me?" she murmured in return, combing his thick hair back with her fingers._

"_Mmm," Chuck hummed with satisfaction, and shot her a devilish smile. "All in good time."_

_He rose to his feet, and, after one lingering, open-mouthed kiss, turned her around. Slowly, inch-by-inch, he unzipped her dress. His lips followed the path of exposed skin down the nape of her neck and the column of her spine. He nuzzled his month into the soft indention at the small of her back, sighing, and kneaded her hips hungrily with both hands._

_Through half-closed eyes, Blair watched herself in the mirror. Her lips parted; her face contorted with barely contained arousal._

_She saw Chuck re-appear over her shoulder, and watched as he deftly slid down the straps of her dress. She let her loosened bodice fall down to her waist, and watched in the mirror as her naked upper body bloomed from the crumpled fabric._

_Kissing her shoulder, he reached around her and cradled her breasts in his hands, staring at their reflection. When he massaged her nipples between her fingers, she moaned quietly and let her head fall back onto his shoulder._

"_Take me now," she whispered._

"_All in good time," he repeated._

_She rebelliously bucked her hips back, grinding into his erection, and heard him hiss through his teeth at the moment of contact. But he made no effort to stop her—instead, he set his hands on her hips and pulled her even more tightly against him, groaning._

_Their eyes met in the mirror, and fire flashed between them._

"_Take me _now_," she demanded._

_Without a word, he pulled the parted dress down over her hips, and it cascaded to the floor in a waterfall of silk._

_Within minutes they were naked, entangled on the bed—and making love with an intensity that had them both gasping for breath._

_Blair entwined her arms around his back and slid her feet down the back of his legs. When he leaned down and bit her softly on the neck, she reached up and tangled her fingers tightly in his hair._

_"Harder," she breathed into his ear, and, propping himself up on his elbows, he complied. Moaning with incredulity at the pleasure he was giving her, she opened her eyes, and watched him thrust into her in a quick rhythm that caused her to tremble and writhe underneath him._

_At the same moment, they lifted their gazes and locked eyes, devouring the sight of each another in ecstasy._

_Gazing into his eyes, Blair reached up to caress his face, and, without breaking eye contact with her, he turned his head and kissed the center of her palm._

_She'd found this level of intimacy frightening at first—but after the first few months of their relationship, they'd grown more and more comfortable with such gestures. It was as if their unspoken trust allowed them to lay themselves bare before another person for the very first time._

_Not to mention that it was a total turn-on. After a couple of moments, Chuck swallowed and clenched his eyes shut—not because he wanted to avoid her gaze, she realized, but because he was struggling to postpone an orgasm._

_Blair smiled and let her eyes dance over his face, delighting in the tortured pleasure she saw. She loved knowing that she could send him over the edge at any moment by a sudden forward movement of her hips, or by moaning his name out loud._

_He only took a couple of moments to regain his control. Then he reopened his eyes, and gazed once again into hers._

"_I love you," he whispered with a feverish intensity, sending a sudden surge of pleasure radiating upwards and outwards from her core._

_Moving her mouth in the approximate shape of the same words, Blair tried to force out a reply—but instead lost herself in a tremulous scream. Clutching her arms tightly around his back, she rode out her orgasm, letting out sharp little cries as her muscles tightened around him._

_He uttered a surprised noise against her shoulder, and when she felt him thrust into her in a wild uncontrolled rhythm she knew he was coming, too, and for one glorious moment—it could have been a second, it could have been a _year_—it felt as if they were one being, as if their flesh and hearts and souls had fused together._

_Then they were Blair and Chuck again, with two spent, sweating bodies and two racing hearts, and she was touching his face, and murmuring, "I love you, too," in a blissed-out, post-coital voice._

_He laughed._

"_What?" Blair said, frowning at him for spoiling her romantic mood. "I wanted to say it back! I just…didn't have the chance."_

"_It's fine, Blair," he said with a chuckle, rolling off of her and onto his back._

_Pouting slightly, Blair curled towards him and laid her hand on his chest._

"_I thought it was important to you that I say it back," she said in a low voice, watching the rise and fall of his ribcage._

_Smirking, he stroked back her hair from her face. "Well," he said, "I'll accept an orgasm as a substitute. The _only_ substitute," he corrected, and leaned up to kiss her again…_

And then, suddenly, it was 2011 again. It was summer. She was still in her bedroom, but she was alone. And the love of her life was nowhere to be seen.

Blair sat motionless in the midst of the pile of dresses. Her head hung low; her hands lay empty in her lap. The happy memory had left her with an uncontrollable ache in the center of her chest. It spread like a cancerous node. It engulfed her heart.

For the first time, she realized the gravity of what she'd lost.

At first, there was only one—one lonely, isolated little teardrop, splattered onto the ash-rose silk. And then there were two, and then there were three…like the first few drops of rainfall onto a city sidewalk, just before the coming of a gathering storm.

Blair didn't even feel the tears stream down her cheeks. Nor did she notice the rustle at the door, nor the sudden presence of her most devoted friend by her side.

"Mees Blair?" she heard Dorota say with obvious concern, sinking down onto the floor beside her. "What is the matter?"

Two more wet circles had alighted upon the fabric of the dress before she could bring herself to answer.

"I have to match with him, Dorota," she insisted in a passionate burst, wiping away her tears with a quick dart of her hand. "If I don't match, he'll know….he'll know we're not meant to be. Not supposed to happen. He won't—"

Helpless, she looked up at the other woman, whose blue eyes gleamed with sympathy…and then, to Blair's surprise, she pressed the tip of her finger to the left side of her chest.

"You and Meester Chuck—you match _here_, Mees Blair," Dorota declared. "And the heart—it is all that matters."

Blair exhaled in a burst. "Really?" she ventured in a small voice, barely daring to hope.

"Meester Chuck still loves you," the maid returned firmly. "If I know one thing, I know that this is true."

Overcome by gratitude and relief, Blair leaned forward and enveloped Dorota in her arms.

"Shh," Dorota shushed her, and rocked her back and forth as if she were a baby. "Everything will be all right. You will see."

Closing her eyes, Blair lost herself in the soothing motion. Maybe Dorota was right. Maybe everything would turn out all right. If only she just could fast-forward to tomorrow evening, and see it for herself…

"When is party?" she heard Dorota ask.

"Tomorrow," she murmured back. "And…I don't know what I'm going to do, Dorota."

"You will tell Meester Chuck how much you love him," Dorota returned with conviction. "And he will come back to you. You will see."

"But…it's just not that _simple_," Blair said in a weak protest.

"Matching dress, or not—doesn't matter," Dorota replied. "Love—it makes everything simple."

Startled by the familiar words, Blair pulled herself away from Dorota with a look of recognition...but then she heard her cell phone peep on the nightstand.

Jerking herself to her feet and rushing across the room, she turned over the phone and pressed the "read" button with an impatient thumb.

"Humphrey," the typeface read, and, after clicking the button again, she read the accompanying text with searching eyes.

**One last meeting before the party? We need to go over logistics.**

Blair's mouth twisted into a disapproving frown. Something about the word "logistics" didn't sit right with her. It was too calculated. Too _planned_.

Dorota was right. Only one thing would solve this—a forthright declaration of love. And she'd do anything to make sure that Chuck knew the place that he held in her heart.

She was willing to put everything on the line, including reputation, social standing, and the Upper East Side posturing she'd cultivated from youth.

**Spectacle be damned**, she texted back, her thumbs tap-dancing over the keypad. **I got this, Humphrey**. **7PM. The penthouse. Let everyone know.**

Setting down the phone, she turned to look at Dorota with the light of pure inspiration in her eyes, and hesitated.

"Um, about the dress," she hedged.

"Just in case, I make espionage?" Dorota offered in a wily voice, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, Dorota," Blair whispered, a slow smile of confirmation spreading across her face. "You do that."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: The next chapter opens at the Empire anniversary party. What do you hope will happen that night?**

**A million thanks to my conspirator, Miss Maribells. What would I do without you as my editor, muse, and companion-in-bitchery?**

**Write back to me, readers. I love hearing from you.**


	14. A Play to Make My Lover Stay

**Saturday night. The Empire Anniversary party.**

A heavily made-up reporter was rattling off a report, holding a microphone in front of her face and trying not to squint at the sunlight in her eyes. "Thanks, Bryan," she said with a forced smile. "I'm reporting live from the Empire Hotel, which celebrates its anniversary tonight. After a dip in revenue following the crash of 2008, the luxury hotel has been back in the black for the past _two quarters_—and most people seem to think it's the work of boy billionaire and gossip column regular Chuck Bass. He has a reputation for throwing the best parties in town, and, judging from the crowd gathered here tonight, this evening doesn't look to disappoint…"

The news camera panned over the entrance of the Empire Hotel, where a line of security guards stood sentry at the foot of the red carpet. Behind them, a hoard of paparazzi was cordoned behind two velvet ropes, yelling at the guests and snapping pictures at a frantic pace. Gawking passersby held up their cell phones to take snapshots of the action.

A lightbulb flashed a few feet away from Dan's face, sending bright circles dancing across his retinas. Wincing with pain, he attempted to massage his eyelids with the flats of his fingertips—but his hands came to an abrupt halt when they bonked against the lenses of his vintage glasses.

"_Do I really have to wear these? he had groaned, displeased with his image in the mirror. "They make me look like a nerd."_

"_You _**are**_ a nerd, Humphrey," Blair had declared. "I doubt your suit is even in an appropriate cut, so at least take the glasses. You wouldn't want to embarrass Serena, now would you?"_

At least Serena had turned up in a vintage dress that suited the party's 1960s theme. She was wearing a playful taffeta frock in an iridescent blue, and it brought out the luster of her eyes. Dan let his eyes roam over her in admiration as she posed for the photographers with one hand on her hip, and twirled around to show off the fullness of her skirt. It was amazing, he mused, how easily she could charm everyone in a fifty-foot vicinity with one toss of her curled blonde mane.

Over the protests of the photographers clamoring for "one more shot, Miss van der Woodsen," she rejoined him at the head of the carpet and interlocked her arm with his.

"Have I told you how utterly…amazing you look?" he whispered into her ear as he walked her through the Empire entrance.

Serena chuckled. "Only about five times already, Dan," she said, the corners of her eyes curling into a smile. "But look—" Assuming a serious expression, she disentangled her arm from his. "Remember what we said about tonight…"

"Right." Dan nodded. "We've got to maintain focus. Did you hear from Nate?"

"He's already in position," she reported, after a glance at her cell phone. "So far everything's going according to plan. Which means that…"

"You need to get to your post. Right."

"Will you be okay alone?"

"Oh, sure," Dan said breezily. "I'm used to large crowds of rich people ignoring me."

Serena gave him a pitying look and was leaning forward to kiss him, but then checked herself abruptly.

"Focus, van der Woodsen," he reminded her with tender eyes.

"Right," she said, her voice barely containing her happiness. She reached forward and gave his hand an affectionate squeeze, and then began to make her way through the clusters of people in the ballroom.

Plucking a canapé off a passing tray and munching on it thoughtfully, Dan surveyed the crowd. It was teeming with socialites, luminaries, and well-known philanthropists, all dressed for the occasion in slim-fitting suits and jewel-toned gowns. Chuck had done well for himself, he thought, squinting at a man who bore a remarkable resemblance to Anderson Cooper. He was chatting up a woman in silver with a wry smile—who, on closer glance, appeared to be Maureen Dowd.

Across the room, he caught the eye of a Brylcreemed security guard standing by a column—and reached his hand up to his head and stroked his temple twice.

The security guard gave him a curt nod, and Dan felt a surge of triumph.

It was the agreed-upon signal, which meant that Blair had already made it past the service entrance. Within ten minutes she'd be in position, and the only hurdle that remained was for her to talk to—

"_Chuck_," Dan blurted, surprised at the other man's sudden appearance.

With a quick glance, he took in Chuck's fitted black suit (accented by a white silk pocket square), his parted hair (slicked back in a retro style), and his eyes (growing colder and colder by the millisecond).

"Hey—uh, great party," he remarked with a bit too much enthusiasm.

Chuck sized him up with a look of infinite disdain. "How on earth did you manage to weasel your way in, Humphrey?" he drawled. "And please don't tell me this is another pitiful attempt at an intervention."

"Ah, no, I'm just here to soak in all the glamour," Dan lied. "I've got a period piece cooking…a tribute to Fitzgerald. I'll send you a notice as soon as it's in print."

"I'm not interested in your upcoming _roman à clef_," Chuck said scornfully. "I oversaw the guest list, and you were purposely uninvited. How did you make it past security?"

Dan scanned the floor for Serena. She was already posted by the bar, chatting happily with a tall woman in a draped Italian gown. "I'm your stepsister's plus one," he explained, gesturing towards her. "She's, uh, off getting a drink…"

"Serena's my _adoptive_ sister, Humphrey," Chuck corrected him with a hint of malice. "You're your stepsister's plus one."

His eyes scanned Dan's face suspiciously. "Are you two getting cozy again?"

Dan opened his mouth. "Ahh…" he exhaled, not knowing how to answer.

Chuck's lips twisted to one side in a smirk that he hadn't seen for a while. "Well, you know what they say about the family that plays together…" he said in a low voice.

"Serena's not my family, Chuck," Dan replied, annoyed. "She's _yours_."

"Well, if she's dating _you_ again, an estrangement may be in order," Chuck grumbled, raising a glass of scotch to his lips.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dan suddenly spotted a familiar flash of red hair over Chuck's shoulder. His eyes widened in dismay.

It was Wendy. Dressed in a fitted red dress that showed off her ample cleavage, she was leaning against the end of bar opposite Serena, holding a slender cigarette holder and blowing smoke rings into the air. When a well-dressed older gentleman sidled up to her, she gave him a sly smile and began to speak to him in a flirtatious manner.

Dan's heart seized up in his chest, and he felt his palms begin to perspire.

Why on earth hadn't he figured Wendy into the equation? he thought frantically. Oh, _right_—because that would have required informing Blair that her ex was now spending his evenings in the company of a prostitute.

He fought the urge to roll his eyes at his own amateurishness. He had neglected the _one thing_ that was most likely to derail the plan. Just because he was afraid of causing a scene.

Berating himself for his lack of foresight, he desperately tried to make eye contact with Serena, but the milling crowd by the bar blocked his view of her. When he returned his gaze to Wendy, he saw that she was now eyeing him and Chuck with a slight furrow of puzzlement on her forehead.

Great. Just…great.

"Humphrey?" Chuck's voice rocketed him back to reality.

"Whuh?" Dan replied, jerking his eyes back to the other man, who was eyeing him suspiciously.

"If you're going to gawk at my _employee_," Chuck said with a sneer, "you could at least have the courtesy to do it discreetly. I'll give you a tip—use your peripheral vision."

"I wasn't…she, um—" Dan tried desperately to think of a way to find out if Chuck was planning on taking Wendy up to the penthouse at the party's close. "Yeah, I, uh, guess you must have Wendy under exclusive contract for the evening, huh?" he remarked in what he hoped was an off-hand tone.

He knew he'd been too forward when Chuck narrowed his eyes. "Wendy's here for window-dressing," he explained in a curt tone. "High class parties require a number of beautiful women to set the scene. It tends to attract…a certain demographic."

Well, judging from the cluster of combed-over men surrounding Wendy at the moment, she was certainly doing her duty.

"Right, right," Dan said mindlessly. "So, it's not like you're planning on…

He tried to jerk his eyebrow upwards in an insinuating way, and failed.

"Tonight I have more important things on my agenda," Chuck replied, looking perturbed at Dan's unspoken question. "But…what I can't figure out is why you're suddenly so very curious about me and Wendy? Unless….

Dan felt himself impaled by Chuck's gaze like an insect onto a mounting board. _Dear God, please don't let Chuck Bass read my mind_, he prayed. The last thing he needed was for Chuck to anticipate Blair's appearance—it would ruin everything…

When a knowing look dawned in the other man's eyes, he felt his stomach spasm nervously.

"Humphrey…" Chuck slowly said, his lips curling into a mocking smirk, "please don't tell me you've got a thing for Wendy."

Dan did his best to hide his monumental relief under an innocuous stare. "Wh...what gives you that idea?" he sputtered.

"Well, I _have_ slept with her, so I guess it makes sense," Chuck conceded. "Still, it's hardly polite, considering that you're here with my sister. And if she has any…_expectations_ of you…however low they must be, I'd strongly advise you not to dash them."

"I'm not—I don't—"

"_Please_," Chuck snorted. "I'm fully aware of Wendy's effect on men. Especially the gullible ones."

"I find her an intriguing person, that's all," Dan floundered. "In fact, she'd work well as a character in my story..."

"Look—Dan—" Chuck lowered his voice, and, to his surprise, drew slightly closer to him. "This is that one time every year where I actually try to do you a favor. Don't bother."

"Oh?" Dan replied sardonically. "Is this the voice of experience? From having dated numerous prostitutes?"

"I know what you're thinking. Beneath the cutting comments and the cigarettes, she's a hooker with a heart of gold. You're wrong. Wendy doesn't care about anyone but herself."

"Well, for some…inexplicable reason, she seems to like you well enough."

"She likes my _money_," Chuck contradicted. "There's a difference."

"Really?" Dan said edgily. "I, uh, kind of doubt that was her reason for calling Nate to the rescue before you ODed on Oxycontin."

Chuck visibly bristled at this reminder of his recent bender. "I assure you that that wasn't because she _cares_," he said in a crisp voice. "There's nothing personal about our little arrangement…it's just that I did a favor for her once, and she feels obligated to me. It's a point of honor for her. Nothing more."

"Sounds personal enough to me," Dan observed.

There was a sudden roar from the paparazzi outside. Squinting, Dan craned his neck towards the wide glass window showcasing the hotel's entrance.

Everyone at the front of the velvet rope was jostling each other, angling for a better position. Photographers threw elbows, cursing, and held their cameras overhead for a clearer shot. Flashbulbs snapped like popcorn.

Curious, Dan raised himself up on his tiptoes for a better view. Who could be causing all of this commotion?

A youngish guy in a sharp white tux was sauntering down the red carpet. Dan didn't recognize him—a pair of rock-star sunglasses obscured half of his face—but something about his casual sprawling steps and the cigarette dangling from his lips telegraphed the fact that he was extraordinarily wealthy.

The photographers were bellowing to get his attention, but he didn't seem to pay them any attention. He only gave his cigarette a diffident flick, sending it soaring over the heads of the crowd. A pair of female on-lookers got into a nasty wrestling match, trying to grab it off of the sidewalk as a souvenir.

"Who's that?" Dan asked, puzzled. The guy looked familiar enough, but he just couldn't place him.

Chuck said nothing, but a calculating look appeared in his eyes.

In a flash, Wendy appeared by Chuck's side, her pretty features twisting with anger.

"I have a bone to pick with you," she said to him, ignoring Dan, who had opened his mouth to greet her.

"Oh?" Chuck said, looking amused. "What bone might that be?"

"You did not tell me Jeremy Darling was on the guest list," Wendy said through gritted teeth.

"He _wasn't_," he immediately returned. "It's not like he ever RSVPs…"

Dan turned his head back towards the entrance and watched with wide eyes as the man in sunglasses crossed over the threshold. He casually draped his arms around the waists of two well-known fashion models, beaming, and they laughed and inclined their heads towards him.

"Whoa—you mean—" he stuttered. "That guy…the Jeremy you were talking to the other night…is Jeremy _Darling_?"

He had spent the past four years standing on the sidelines of Upper East Side society parties, but this was the first time he'd managed to catch of a glimpse of someone whose net worth eclipsed the economy of a small country.

"Jeremy Darling, as in—the _Darlings_," he continued, incredulous. "As in—"

"The richest family in Manhattan," Wendy finished in a grim voice.

"Shouldn't surprise you that Wendy's client list reads like the Forbes 500," Chuck said, shooting Dan a smirk.

"Chuck, I told him that we were through," Wendy seethed. "And I really don't want to deal with an ex-client tonight. That wasn't part of our agreement."

"Aww…does Jeremy have a little crush on you?" Chuck teased. "Let me guess—he wants to pull a _Pretty Woman_? Rescue you from your squalid life as a prostitute?"

Wendy shot him a death glare.

"Oh, come on, Wendy," Chuck said, adjusting his shirtsleeve. "I'm paying you double your usual rate to stand around and look pretty. Don't get all aggrieved with me."

"You've got something up that sleeve of yours," Wendy remarked, eyeing him suspiciously, "and you better tell me what it is."

"All in good time," Chuck replied distractedly, pulling his humming phone out of his pocket. With a darkening expression, he read the text on the screen, and let out a frustrated sigh. "But your little friend's going to have to wait. I have to go deal with a security issue. Please excuse me."

Dan realized he'd forgotten to keep track of the time. Turning his wrist over, he glanced at the face of his watch. It was 8:30 on the dot—which meant that their people on the inside had pulled through.

Right now, Blair was in the security office, waiting to talk to Chuck. Alone.

"You're not skirting your way out of this, Chuck," Wendy declared in a vehement tone.

"I told you—I have to go to the security office," Chuck grumbled. "You think I _want_ to do that? It's probably some drunken media mogul I'm going to have to respectfully ask to leave..."

"You are not leaving me out here by myself to deal with _Jeremy Darling_," she hissed. "I told you that he gets emotional. And the last thing you want tonight is a scene in the middle of the ballroom floor."

Chuck rolled his eyes. "_Fine_," he said. "Tag along if you want to. What do I care."

"Thank you," Wendy returned sulkily, taking him by the arm. The two of them began to walk away together, and Dan felt a surge of panic in his chest.

Shit. He couldn't let Wendy leave with Chuck. If they showed up in the security office together, Blair would lose her nerve, and the plan would fall apart.

He had to do something.

Snapping into action, he hurried across the floor to catch up to them, dodging around partygoers…and narrowly missing knocking over a waiter with a silver tray.

"Uh—Wendy," he exclaimed in a burst, stepping between them. "If Chuck's busy, I'll be glad to keep you company for a bit. How about I, uh, buy you a drink?"

He knew that it was a pathetic effort, but the way that Wendy gaped at him made him feel like a grade-A idiot.

Leaning forward, Chuck jerked Dan towards him by the upper arm with an iron grip.

"Look, _Humphrey_," he hissed into his ear, "my sister doesn't deserve this. Not from you, not from anyone. So if you're committed to Serena, you better make sure to keep your eye from wandering from now on."

"I wasn't—" Dan began.

"_Right_," Chuck said, shoving him backwards with a burst of force that sent him stumbling to regain his balance. And he couldn't do anything but watch as Chuck walked across the floor at a quick clip, Wendy following on his heels.

Dan ran a hand through his hair desperately, and fumbled in his pocket for his phone.

**EMERGENCY**, he texted with lightening-quick thumbs. **ABORT**.

Within the space of a half-minute, Serena was by his side.

"Dan—what's going on?" she asked, troubled. "I though I was supposed to post by the bar and keep an eye on the floor."

"Didn't you see what happened?" Dan asked. "He took WENDY to the office."

"What…no!" Serena exclaimed. "Why didn't you text me sooner?"

Dan opened his mouth, and failed to find a reply. Truthfully, he had gotten distracted as soon as Jeremy Darling had made his spectacular entrance.

Nate appeared in front of them, a vexed expression on his face. "Okay, so…I'm confused," he admitted, scratching his head. "I thought I was supposed to stay by the entrance to the security office in case Chuck tried to bolt, right? And lock the door."

"Well, unless you want to lock Chuck and Blair and WENDY together in a room," Dan spat, "I think that's probably a bad idea."

Nate's jaw dropped open. "He took WENDY? _Why_?"

"I don't know, I tried to stop her, but…" Dan trailed off helplessly. "What are we going to do?" he said in a panic. "Blair doesn't need to find out about Wendy, that's for fucking sure."

"It could still be all right," Serena consoled him. "Did Blair get your message? She could have left the office before they got there."

Dan checked his phone. No new messages**.** "I don't know," he replied.

"Well…" Serena pulled at her hair with one hand, mussing her carefully set curls. "If she's managed to make it out of there, it might still be all right. She told me that she had some kind of back-up plan."

This was the first Dan had heard of a Plan B. "What was it?" he asked impatiently.

"I don't know," she admitted, "but it sounded kind of…drastic."

Dan put his face into his hands and groaned.

**—**

"No one's here," Chuck remarked with some surprise, eyeing the empty security office.

It was a simple room in the shape of a square, dominated by a wide desk in front of a wall of video screens. Most of them provided a bird's-eye view of the various hallways and entrances of the Empire Hotel, but the lobby and the ballroom were surveilled on the front and center panels. The screens shifted every few seconds to an alternate camera, giving a new angle on the party guests milling around the floor.

Neither he nor Wendy noticed that the door to the storage closet in the corner was slightly ajar.

"Maybe your employees are playing a practical joke on you," Wendy said with a shrug, glancing around the empty office.

"I have the best employees in New York, Wendy," Chuck said in a dry voice. "They don't go around playing _jokes_." He trailed off, looking pensive. "I need to go find Raoul," he said with a sudden sense of unease, and turned back towards the door.

"Oh no, you don't." Wendy slammed the heavy door shut with a shove of her palm. "We're not leaving this room until you tell me what the hell's going on."

"I already told you," Chuck replied with evident impatience. "I needed to show people that I could draw a topnotch crowd tonight. And that includes the most attractive women in Manhattan. Especially the ones who are…you know…" His voice dropped. "_Available_."

Wendy dismissed this explanation with a quick shake of her head. "Nuh-uh," she said in a one-two chant. "I don't buy that for a second."

"Why not? It's hardly without precedent."

"Oh, come off it, Chuck. You haven't paid me to pretty up a party since the night you opened up Victrola."

"I just thought that your coming here tonight would be beneficial to the both of us," Chuck groused. "You can't tell me you haven't already met some potential new clients…"

"It's my _old_ clients that are worrying me at the moment," Wendy returned. Setting a hand against her hip, she looked him in the eye with a hard gaze that prodded him to continue.

"_Fine_." Chuck relented after a moment's pause. "I know that Jeremy Darling is—_was_—one of your regulars. I know he's got a thing for you. And I may have mentioned to him at the club last Wednesday that you'd be at the party tonight."

Wendy blinked in disbelief. "You whoredme out to Jeremy Darling?"

"_No_," he replied, looking cross. "I didn't say anything about you—_doing_ anything with him. I just…needed something to entice him to show up to the party."

Wendy folded her arms over her chest. "Why."

"I'm trying to sell the Empire, Wendy," Chuck explained. "Tonight, if I can manage it. And Jeremy's just gotten hold of a _very_ sizable trust fund, and it's burning a hole in his pocket. So…let's say you flirt with him, he gets a bit impulsive, I pitch the hotel, and at midnight I make the announcement that the Empire's got a new owner. Jeremy goes home with a deed; you and I go home rich. That's the plan."

There was a moment of silence.

"You're out of your mind," she said.

"What's the problem?" Chuck asked, knitting his eyebrows together in puzzlement. "I'm not asking that much of you."

"I don't lie to my clients," she returned in an adamant voice. "You _know_ that."

"I'm not asking you to lie!"

"Yes, you _are_," Wendy countered. "Jesus, Chuck— you know I break things off when a client gets too involved. That poor kid was upset enough when I told him that I couldn't see him anymore. And I'm not going to make him think he's got a chance with me just so you can turn a quick buck."

"Christ, Wendy, you don't have to violate your precious _code._ All you have to do is take a little spin with him across the ballroom floor—"

"And you're an _idiot_ for trying to sell the Empire to Jeremy Darling," she interrupted him to rant. "He's got the business sense of a ferret. He'll run it into the ground within the year."

"Why should I care?"

"Why should you _care_?" Wendy parroted, incredulous. "The Empire was on the verge of bankruptcy when you took it over. You revamped its image. You built up its reputation, and you turned it around. And now you're just going to throw it all _away_?"

She shook her head, staring at him in amazement. "What your father would say if he could see you right now?"

Her words plainly struck a nerve in Chuck, who jerked his head backwards from her as if he'd been slapped in the face.

"That…doesn't matter," he finally replied, sounding slightly less ensured. "I'm not Bart Bass. I'm never going to be Bart Bass. I've come to terms with that."

"Well, you sure as hell don't have his business sense," Wendy shot back. "But I was convinced that you were a better man than he was."

"He _was_ a good man, Wendy," Chuck said in a voice that warned her not to continue.

"He was a good man, all right, but he was one cold son of a bitch," she said, shaking her head. "I swear to God—instead of blood, he had ice water running through his veins."

"Don't you _dare_ talk about my father that way," he said through his teeth. "If I hadn't asked him to help you, you'd be _dead_ right now."

"I _know that_," Wendy blurted. "Do you think I've forgotten about it for one minute _since_? Over the past four years I've done everything I could for you. I've always dropped everything the minute you called me!"

Chuck let out a scoffing laugh. "And _now_ you won't help me. The one time I need you the _most_." His mouth twisted into an angry smile. "You're one to talk about being cold."

"I've got a right to be," Wendy said, "considering what I've been through."

Chuck instantly looked apologetic, and opened his mouth to speak—but she continued before he could get out a single word.

"But I am _not_ a liar," she said, trembling with barely contained passion. "I've never been anything but honest about what I do for a living. And I'm not going to fuck Jeremy Darling over. Not even for you."

"You don't have to fuck him over," Chuck said in a dark voice. "All you have to do is persuade him to buy the Empire. That's _it_."

"No."

"Why are you making this into such a big deal?" he demanded, gesturing with his hands in exasperation. "I'm just trying to sell a _hotel_. It's a piece of _property_. Nothing more."

"This isn't about the _hotel_, Chuck," Wendy said, throwing up her hands in frustration. "It's about _Blair_."

A loaded silence fell between the two of them.

Chuck pointed at her. "You—you don't get to talk to me about Blair," he said in a low forbidding tone. "You _know_ that."

"You haven't given me a choice!" she exclaimed. "You're trying to cut her out of your life, and you're cutting out everything else, too. Severing all your ties, burning all your bridges, leaving everything behind!"

"So what if I am?" Chuck answered, sending one of the office chairs spinning into the wall with a forceful thrust of his hand.

Turning his back to her, he took a couple of paces away, wiping his face with his hands. "So what if I am," he repeated in a quieter voice.

Wendy stared after him, her expression equal parts frustration and pity. "It's not right, Chuck," she said, shaking her head slowly. "You know it's not. Running away isn't going to fix anything."

Letting out a bitter laugh, he whirled around to face her. "This is coming from _you_?" he said in a mocking voice, raising his eyebrows. "Or was it some other teenage runaway who picked me up in the Boom Boom Room four years ago?"

Wendy looked at him. "Don't bring the past into this.".

"Wendy, even when we were teenagers, we knew that we were cut from the same cloth," Chuck insisted. "We're better off without attachments. Without _people_. Because all we do is screw them over, or get screwed over ourselves."

"Chuck—" she interjected, but he pressed on.

"I tried to be a different person for a while…but now I know it's true." His eyes glazed over numbly, and his voice dropped to a murmur. "We're just alike, Wendy," he finished, staring at the floor. "We're better off alone."

There was a pause.

"We _used_ to be alike, Chuck," Wendy finally said, her voice emphatic and slow. "But somewhere along the way, Blair brought something to life inside of you, and since then you've never been the same."

Chuck scoffed.

"You can deny it all you want, but we both know it's true," she said, flicking her eyes up at him knowingly. "You know the kind of life I've had. I don't trust people. I don't get close to people. And that's okay. I'm fine with it."

"Wendy," he began in a voice panged with sympathy.

"Shh," she hushed him. She locked eyes with him, and a light sparked in her blue eyes. "You're going to be normal," she told him. "You're going to be _fine_. Maybe even _happy_…unless you screw things up again, which you seem hell-bent on doing."

"Why are you being like this?" Chuck demanded.

"Because you've changed," Wendy said. "You used to call me because you were horny and lonely and had cash to burn. But now you only call me because you can't deal with reality anymore. Because you want to fly off to some Never-Never-Land where you can forget about everything—all your bullshit with your father, all your drama with Blair, _everything_. You call me whenever the people you love let you down. But no matter how many times you run away with me, your life is still going to be waiting for you when you get back, and it's just going to get more fucked up while you're gone."

"Well, maybe that's why I'm not coming back this time," he shot back.

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I've got the helicopter waiting for me on the launch pad downtown. After the party's over, I'm headed out of the country. Over the next two weeks I've got meetings with developers in Johannesburg, Mumbai, Hong Kong, Singapore, and Seoul." He shrugged. "I'm really not sure where I'll end up. But one thing's for sure—it'll be somewhere far away from here. And I'm not coming back this time."

Wendy shook her head, grimacing. "It's a mistake," she said, tightening her jaw. "I know I can't stop you, but I'm not going to lie to you. If you run away now, it's the biggest mistake you'll ever make in your life."

"When did you suddenly turn into my life coach?" Chuck said, scowling. "All I want you to do is help me sell a hotel. You've always helped me out before…"

"I've never _helped_ you!" Wendy exclaimed. "I never realized that till now. The only thing I've ever done is help you sabotage yourself. It's not good for you, and it's not right of me…and I just can't do it anymore. I _can't_."

Chuck looked at her, astonished. "Are you…" He blinked several times. "_Breaking up_ with me? Because you think…I'm—'too involved?'" He let out an abrasive laugh. "I'm _not_, Wendy. Words can't describe how much I'm not."

"Not in the way that clients usually are," Wendy agreed. "But in some weird, twisted, co-dependent way…I'm a crutch for you, Chuck. And I'm not going to do it anymore."

"I only need you for more night," he said. "I'll pay you triple."

"No."

"_Quadruple_."

"Chuck, _stop_! It's not about the money. I'm not going to do it because _I care about you_."

"Oh, _bullshit_, Wendy," he spat. "I thought you had too much self-respect to lie. Especially to me."

"Well, I care about you more than I care about any other human being on the planet," she returned fiercely. "I know that's not saying much, but it's true. And every time you stop calling me, I'm _happy_ _for you_. Because I know it means your life is going well. And I always think to myself, God, I hope it stays this way this time. And then I'm always so _fucking disappointed_ when I look at my phone and see your name there, because I know what it means. It means you're falling apart. Again.

"I've spent the past two years hoping that one day you'd stop calling me and never call again," she went on. "Never _need_ me again. But if you're not going to take that step, I'm taking it for you. I'm out, Chuck. I'm _done_. I'm not helping you anymore."

"You can't do this to me," he insisted, grabbing her by the wrist. "You OWE me!"

Wendy looked at him for one long, drawn-out moment.

"You saved my life once," she said, almost trembling with repressed emotion. "And I'm saving yours now. So you'd better pay close attention to every word I say."

She cleared her throat.

"Blair fucked up," she began. "People do that. Let it go, and take her back, because she wants to be with you, and you're miserable without her."

Chuck didn't say anything. Only a slight flinch of his eyelids betrayed the fact that he'd heard her at all.

"Stop running away," she continued. "Get your shit together. And start acting like the man you are."

She watched as Chuck's eyes flashed with a powerful surge of emotion.

"_Fine_," he said, releasing her wrist from his grip. "If you won't help me sell the Empire, I'll do it on my own."

Pulling the door open and slamming it against the wall, he stormed out of the security office into the hallway.

Wendy let out a sigh, and, dropping her hands down to her sides, stared after him with exhausted eyes.

Pushing her hair back from her face, she started towards the door—and yelped in surprise when she felt a hand curl tightly around her wrist.

"Jesus!" she exclaimed, jerking her hand backwards in fright. "You scared the shit out of me!"

In front of her stood a beautiful woman in white. She had an oval face, chestnut curls, and wide brown eyes. And, after wiping her hand down the skirt of her white silk gown with an expression that suggested she'd just touched something contaminated, she looked at Wendy with a calculating fire in her eyes.

Wendy's lips parted in shock, and she automatically reached into her purse and pulled out a cigarette.

The brown-eyed woman frowned. "Ugh," she said with disgust, plucking the unlit cigarette from Wendy's fingers and tossing it into a nearby wastebasket. "Honestly, woman, what are you thinking? Don't you know that smoking gives you premature _wrinkles_?"

"_Wow_," Wendy said in a flat voice, shaking her head in disbelief. "You're even bitchier than I thought."

The other woman's eyebrows contracted. "Have we…_met_?"

Wendy let out a little laugh. "Not officially," she replied in wry voice. "But yeah, I know who you are. And it's about time you showed up."

Her eyes narrowed in thought. "Were you just…eavesdropping on us the entire time?" she asked, her eyes darting towards the closet in the corner. "Did you hear—"

"I heard everything, _Wendy_," Blair hissed. "And I'll be straight with you. I'm not exactly I delighted to find out that you and Chuck have a history. I can't even imagine what little tricks you've pulled to hold his interest for this length of time."

"Oh, I don't do tricks, honey," Wendy assured her, "other than the occupational variety."

Blair gave her eyes a monumental roll. "Spare me the sordid details," she snapped. "Thinking about the two of you together makes me ill. _But_—" she continued icily, "since you seem to have Chuck's best interests at heart, I'm willing to forgive and forget your past indiscretions."

"Oh, well, isn't that _generous_ of you," Wendy said in a caustic voice, crossing her arms over her chest. "Forgiving _me_. For doing what Chuck _hires_ me to do."

"Don't you start with me, you ginger tramp," Blair seethed. "I could _ruin_ you if I wanted to."

"I'm not the problem here, _Blair_!" Wendy reminded her angrily. "Chuck is about to sell the Empire and move to the other side of the planet because of _you_. So you can either stand here bitching me out, or you can actually _do something_ about it before you lose him forever."

She raised her shoulders in an angry shrug. "It's your call," she finished.

Blair closed her eyes and breathed out through her nostrils. "Just make sure he's on the ballroom floor at nine o'clock sharp," she ordered, snapping her eyes open and regarding Wendy with a steely gaze.

Wendy looked at her with a searching expression. "Why? What have you got planned?"

"You don't need to know. Just make sure he's there, and I'll take care of the rest."

Wendy nodded, plainly deciding to trust her. "Okay."

She turned to leave—and, after a little ruminative pause, she turned back around to face Blair.

"I hope to God you manage it," she offered. "Because if you don't…" She hesitated. "I think something really bad might happen to him."

Blair swallowed. "I will," she replied, her eyes sparking with conviction.

Then her lips curled upwards in a cold smile. "And after I do, I hope to God I never see you again," she added in a crisp voice.

Wendy smiled back. "Trust me," she said in a not unaffectionate way, "the feeling's entirely mutual."

**—**

Rubbing his mouth with his hand, Chuck strode into the ballroom, scanning the floor for Jeremy Darling's brilliant white tuxedo. His eyes darted through the crowd—over a trio of giggling socialites, several white-haired members of the Bass Industries board, and a Greek shipping heir sipping ouzo—before settling on an elegant blonde woman wearing a gold lamé dress, who was standing directly in front of him.

"Charles," she gushed, walking up to embrace him. "I can't tell you how pleased I am at the turn-out tonight."

"Lily," Chuck mumbled in astonishment, raising his hand to her back and returning her embrace. "I…didn't think you were coming."

The private jet was currently in their hangar in Queens, undergoing a routine repair, and a massive hurricane hovering off the East Coast had caused a rash of cross-Atlantic flights to cancel yesterday. He had never expected that Lily would make it back from Morocco in time for the anniversary party.

"Well, we did have to take some extreme measures," Lily admitted, pulling back from him and setting her hands on the tops of his shoulders.

"We had to fly Air _India_," a voice peeped from his side. "_Coach_."

Turning his head, Chuck saw Eric standing by Lily's side in a vintage suit. "Nicely done, Chuck," he added in a warm tone, gesturing around the room with his eyes.

"Oh, and Air India was an experience, let me tell you," Lily said amusedly. "I don't think I'm ever going to get that curry odor out of my suede jacket." She smiled at him. "But it was worth it to see you in your element tonight."

Chuck let out an uncomfortable laugh. "I don't know…about that."

"Charles, this is an extraordinary accomplishment for a 20-year-old businessman," Lily effused. "You really should be proud of yourself."

"Seriously, Chuck, this is a great party," Eric confirmed, glancing around the ballroom again—and suddenly stopping and widening his eyes. "Wait a sec. Is that—Kanye West?"

Chuck followed his gaze across the floor. "Yeah," he confirmed, spotting Kanye standing at the bar with a rose-colored cocktail in his hand. "I wasn't sure he would show up, but…"

Eric made a fanning gesture with one hand. "Oh my God, I am fanboying out," he exclaimed. "I have to go to try to talk to him. Excuse me."

He hurried across the floor, and Lily turned and regarded Chuck with a warm smile.

"Your father would be so proud of you," she said in a gentle voice, and touched his cheek with one hand.

Chuck raised his hand to hers and removed it from his cheek. "Lily, I—" He hesitated. "I should tell you something…"

Suddenly, he felt an arm curl around his shoulder, and turned his head to see a _very_ energetic Jeremy Darling at his side. The hard look in his eyes gave away the fact that he was coked up to the point of rash cheerfulness.

"Dude, this party is _maximum_!" Jeremy blurted out, pulling him into a tight sideways hug. "I had no idea the Empire was slamming nowadays."

He drew back, grinning, and gave Chuck an affectionate punch on the arm.

"Oh, and, uh, by the way…" He inclined towards Chuck's ear, dropping his voice. "Gemma told me to tell you thanks for the party favors. Just…you know, passing that along."

"Glad you could make it, Jeremy," Chuck said with a forced smile. "You've, um, met my adoptive mother?" He gestured towards Lily.

"Jeremy Darling," Lily said in a golden voice, taking Jeremy by the hand. (He stared back at her with wide innocent eyes, obviously trying to remember her name). "I remember when you and your family came to our garden party in the Hamptons…oh, it must have been ten years ago. You certainly have grown into a fine young man."

"Oh, Mrs…" Jeremy floundered, blinking, and then snapped his fingers. "Van der…Bassrhodes…um," He laughed apologetically. "I'm sorry, but I really have no idea what your last name is anymore."

Lily let out an embarrassed laugh. "It's Humphrey," she informed him. "And don't worry, your confusion is…perfectly understandable."

"Lily," Chuck quickly interrupted, "if you'll excuse us, Jeremy and I have something we need to discuss."

"Of course," Lily replied, pressing her hand into his shoulder affectionately. "I'm just going to go find Serena. And ask her why on _earth _she felt the need to steal away on our private jet…" she finished, touching her fingertips to her temple and shaking her head in mock exasperation.

She floated away, and Chuck turned to Jeremy, who was staring at him with the intensity that only hard drugs—or romantic obsession—could provide.

"So where's Wendy, man?" he said, licking his lips. "I, like, you know…really need to talk to her."

"Jeremy, I've got some good news and some bad news," Chuck said in a low voice, taking him by the elbow and leading him towards the edge of the floor. "The bad news is that Wendy had to jet. You know—" He coughed. "Prostitutes and their busy schedules…but the _good news_ is that you just stumbled upon the best investment opportunity of your lifetime. Now, you may have noticed that the Empire stock has been at a ten-year high this week…"

Jeremy stopped in his tracks, looking confused. "Whoa-whoa…Chuck Bass. Be kind, _re_wind," he said, twirling his ring-laced fingers in the air. "You're telling me that Wendy's…not coming tonight?"

"Yeah, uh…she was here, but she had to go," Chuck said uncomfortably.

Jeremy's eyes widened with disappointment and dropped to the floor, and Chuck fought hard to repress a frustrated sigh.

God, what had made him think he could persuade Jeremy Darling to buy his hotel? The man's life was an endless succession of parties, poker games, spontaneous trips to Ibiza, and "musical collaborations" with up-and-coming hip-hop artists. He had never committed to anything beyond the next weekend…

At least, other than the girl who was currently capturing his attention. Jeremy was known for his habit of falling head over heels in love with women who were only in love with his bank account, and Wendy was the latest addition to his string of obsessions. And without her, Chuck didn't see how he could possibly pull this off in time to leave the States tonight.

To his surprise, Jeremy's face suddenly brightened. "You must have heard Wendy wrong, man," he said, looking over Chuck's shoulder with a rapturous look dawning in his eyes.

Chuck frowned. "Why?"

"Um, _dude_. Because she's right behind you."

Chuck turned around.

And there was Wendy, sashaying up to them with a sexy little smile. "Hey boys," she purred, eyeing Chuck with a secret twinkling in her eyes.

"Hey Wendy," Jeremy said with a lovelorn sigh.

"What are you doing here?" Chuck demanded. "I thought you said you..had to go."

"Why? Isn't this where you want me to be?" Wendy returned innocuously. "Standing around, looking pretty…convincing Jeremy to blow his trust fund on a hotel that he'll never be able to run on his own?"

"_Wendy_," Chuck warned her, but she ignored him, and, stepping forward, took Jeremy by the arm.

"Come on, J.," she cooed into his ear as she promenaded him towards the center of the ballroom floor. "Let's have a dance. And I'll tell you a story about a man named Chuck Bass. And how he once tried to take advantage of a poor little rich boy named Jer—"

She let out a startled noise when Chuck pulled her off of Jeremy's arm.

"What do you think you're doing?" he seethed into her ear, frog-marching her several feet across the floor. "Because if I didn't know any better, I'd say that you've moved from 'not-helping' to 'outright sabotage.'"

"I just needed to get you out onto the ballroom floor," she replied, jerking her arm out of his grasp.

Chuck looked around him in astonishment and confusion. "_Why_?"

Wendy looked at him. "Still trying to save your life," she said with a strange little smile.

And at that moment an amplified voice boomed out over the Empire Ballroom.

"Um, hi," it said in a familiar girlish tone. And Chuck, turning his head, saw Blair Waldorf standing in the center of the stage, holding a microphone in one trembling hand.

He turned to shoot a wild-eyed glare at Wendy, but saw that she had already edged away from him. She was taking Jeremy's arm into her own. "Come on, sweetie," she was saying into his ear. "We need to go have another talk."

Chuck turned back to look at the stage with his mouth agape. A spotlight suddenly flickered on, illuminating Blair in a circle of light, and she squinted and shielded her eyes with one hand.

It was the first time he'd seen Blair in over a week, and he couldn't help feeling a flood of tangled emotions. He wanted to be angry—_just_ angry—but she looked so…vulnerable in her white silk gown, standing up there all alone. But when she dropped her hand from her eyes and looked out over the crowd, blinking, he saw the resolution in her eyes, and his heart made a nervous twist in his chest.

Blair cleared her throat. "Many of you here tonight know that I have a long history with Chuck Bass," she began in a wavering voice. Tossing her head to one side, she curved her lips into a self-deprecating smile. "What can I say? We just have a way of generating gossip."

An uncomfortable titter rose from the crowd. Here and there, scattered around the floor, clusters of patrons were staring at Blair and nudging each other with evident Schadenfreude.

She seemed to ignore them.

"But I doubt that any of you know what Chuck Bass has done for the Empire Hotel," she went on, her voice growing more and more ensured by the second. "I could tell you about the glowing reviews it's received over the past year. I could give you stock figures. Numbers."

She shrugged, her eyes slowly panning over the crowd. "But I'd rather tell you about the kind of man he is.

"I've spent some time tonight talking to his employees," she continued. "The people behind the scenes. The ones you barely notice, because they anticipate your every need. And do you know what they had to tell me?

"A security guard told me tonight that Chuck Bass is the best boss that she's ever had. That he implemented a flexible schedule plan so that she could find a sub whenever her mother gets sick. A doorman told me that he extended full benefits to same-sex couples, so that his partner has health insurance for the first time in his life. And a maid..." She paused. "A maid told me that he knows all of his employees by name. Every single one."

An appreciative hush fell over the crowd.

"I wanted you to know the kind of man you're supporting by coming out here tonight," Blair said in an effusive voice. "He's kind. He's generous. And though he may come off as proud sometimes…well." She smiled. "He's got a right to be.

"Everyone who's here tonight is here because of Chuck," she went on, looking around the room. "And every single person who's lucky enough to call him their friend is grateful for his presence in their lives. And they want him to know…" She paused for a second, fighting to steady her voice. "They want him to know how very much he means to them. That he carries them when they're weak. Pushes them onward when they're strong. And they…don't know what they'd do without him. Because he just means that much…"

She trailed off for a second, her eyes gleaming with tears. Then she took a deep breath, and surveyed the crowd.

"The Empire's had a great year," she announced in a jubilant tone, righting her posture and tossing back her head. "We're here to wish it more."

"Here, here," called out a red-faced old man by the bar, and the room erupted with giggles. Blair laughed, and nodded at him—then her expression grew more focused.

"So—ladies and gentleman, please raise your glasses," she said gaily, lifting her champagne flute in the air. "To the Empire…_but_, more importantly, to the _owner_ of the Empire. The man of the hour."

She looked down at Chuck, and their eyes met across the floor—his wide with wonder, hers radiant with tenderness and passion.

"The love of my life," she said in a reverent whisper. "Charles Barthelomew Bass."

The music of clinking glasses rang throughout the room…and then the crowd burst into a deafening, thunderous applause. A circle of patrons formed around Chuck, beaming at him and clapping enthusiastically.

Across the room, Dan was standing on the sidelines with a dumbfounded look on his face, staring up at Blair.

"Uhh…did you know she was going to do that?" he said to one side.

Serena was trying to clap and wipe the tears from her cheeks at the same time. "No," she blurted out. "But…oh my God. That was the most romantic thing I've ever heard in my entire life. _Woo_!" she suddenly cheered, cupping her hands around her mouth. "_Go Chuck and Blair!_"

Chuck was walking towards the stage, bowing his head modestly to the clapping crowd that parted before him. Here and there, he paused long enough to shake a proffered hand. Finally, he jogged up the steps, and, clasping Blair to his side, whispered something intently into her ear.

Blair drew back from him, and, after handing him the microphone and giving him a nod, walked quickly off the stage and disappeared into the wings.

"Jesus, what did he say to her?" Dan exclaimed.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Chuck began in his trademark drawl. "I can't tell you how grateful I am to…"

"I don't know," Serena said to Dan, her eyebrows furrowing. "Do you think it was maybe something…bad?"

"…an honor to serve such an illustrious establishment…" Chuck was saying.

"_Maybe_," Dan replied. He was searching Chuck's face for signs of an emotional reaction, but the man was the picture of perfect composure.

"…never been anything but a pleasure to work with my employees…"

"I don't think it worked," he said hopelessly. "We have to _do something_."

"I don't think there's anything we _can_ do," Nate offered from Serena's left.

Dan and Serena shot him vexed glances.

"…always been my dream to follow in my father's footsteps…"

"_What_?" Nate replied, raising his eyebrows. "Let's face it. If _that_ didn't work…" He shrugged. "Nothing will."

"…lucky enough to have many more years together," Chuck finished. "Thank you."

The room rang out again with applause, and, after setting the microphone back into its stand, Chuck walked off the stage at a quick clip. Immediately following his exit, music began to pump from the speakers—the wistful strains of "Dancing Cheek to Cheek"—and the couples on the floor began to coalesce in waltzes.

"I think Nate's right, Dan," Serena said in a resigned voice. "Blair said what she had to say. All we can do is wait for things to play out."

"But the suspense is _killing_ _me_," Dan moaned, lifting his glasses and massaging his eyes with his fingertips.

Serena regarded him quizzically for a moment…then burst into a giggle.

"You're really cute when you're impatient," she said, a grin stretching across her face. "You know that?"

Behind her back, Nate gave his eyes a knowing roll…and made a beeline in the direction of the bar.

Dan looked up at Serena and sighed. "I just have to know how it ends. I never…" He let out an ironic laugh. "I never would have thought I'd care about Chuck and Blair. _Ever_. But now I do, and I just have to know…what he said to her."

"We _will_ know," Serena assured him. "But for now…the night is young, and we're young, and we're in love…"

His eyes widened, and she gave him an affirmative smile and, reaching her hand down to his, intertwined their fingers together. "So let's dance," she finished.

And he allowed her to lead him to the center of the floor, and there, in the warmth of her embrace, his racing thoughts eventually died away.

**—**

What Chuck had said to Blair was this:

"_We need to talk. Meet me in the Penthouse. I trust security won't give you any problems."_

**—**

The Manhattan cityscape gleamed in the fading light of evening, and Blair Waldorf was pacing around the balcony of the Empire penthouse, nervously wringing her hands. She was so keyed up that she felt as though her heart were about to burst. And when she heard the glass doors sliding upon and Chuck's footsteps echoing against the deck, she turned around—and felt a wave of dread wash over her as soon as she saw his face.

Coming to a sudden stop several yards away, Chuck stared at her, his handsome features twisting with anger.

"What the fuck was that?" he demanded.

Blair's forehead wrinkled in confusion. "What do you mean?" she asked in a high pitch.

"Are you trying to ruin me?"

"What? _No_!" she cried.

"I don't believe you," he spat, after a moment of deliberation. "You wouldn't pull a stunt like that unless you were _deliberately_ trying to humiliate me."

Blair's eyes widened with amazement. "You think I was trying to humiliate _you_?" she said. "By putting myself up on _display_ in front of everyone?"

"Jesus, Blair, do you know how much it took for me to keep a straight face up there?" Chuck exclaimed. "What were you hoping I'd do? Throw a fit? Storm out of the room? Break down _in tears_?

"Chuck—" Blair tried to interrupt him, shaking her head.

"I'm sorry to spoil your plans to turn me into a laughingstock," he went on, suffusing every word with mockery, "but I'll give you points. It was a solid effort."

Turning his back to her, he crossed his arms, gripping his shoulders with his hands, and stared off into the darkening sky.

Blair gaped at him for a moment—and then she let out a sharp sigh, her hands turning upwards in a hapless, involuntary gesture.

"You know what, Chuck?" she said shakily, her eyes gleaming with tears. "If that's what you think of me, you should have just called me out in front of everyone. Told everyone what a _horrible person_ you think I really am."

He turned around to face her, his eyes flashing fire.

"You'll never have a better chance than you had tonight," she went on in a bitter voice. "It's too bad that you let the opportunity slide."

Clenching his eyes shut, Chuck made a steeple of his hands and placed them over his nose and mouth.

"Blair—" he said, removing his hands from his face. "I would_ never_ do that to you. No matter what. You should know that by now."

Blair took a moment to process his words, and felt a glimmer of hope rise in her chest.

"I was being sincere, Chuck," she said. "I meant every word."

They regarded each other for a moment, and then he blinked and darted his gaze away.

"Why?" he asked in a low voice, surveying the skyscrapers off in the distance. "Why'd you get up there and…say all those things?"

"I…" Blair licked her lips, hesitating. "I was hiding in the security office," she admitted. "Waiting to talk to you. And I heard you coming down the hall, and you were talking to…Wendy."

Chuck shoved his face in his hands and let out a groan.

"I heard the whole thing," Blair said slowly. "You were going to throw away everything you've worked for over the past two years. You were going to run away, and I couldn't let you do it. Not again."

"All these years, and you're still trying to save me from myself," he said with a laugh that came out like a cough. "And here I thought you were done playing the martyr."

"It's not like that," she retorted fiercely. "I just wanted you to know the _truth._ The truth that everyone knows but _you_."

"Oh?" he replied scornfully, darting his eyebrows upwards. "And what's that?"

"That people _need_ you," she declared. "People _love_ you. People…_here_."

He shot her a look of consummate skepticism, and, turning on his heel, began to pace back and forth across the balcony like a panther in a cage.

"It's true," Blair said, wiping her tear-blurred eyes.

Pacing across the deck, Chuck opened his mouth and rubbed his chin with one hand. He looked as though he were having an animated argument with himself. Finally, coming to a stop, he took in a deep breath and let it out unevenly.

"Maybe it is," he said in a rasp, staring down at the floor. "But that's not enough to make me stay."

"What do you mean?" Blair cried in disappointment. "Why not?"

"You're only doing this out of _charity_, Blair," Chuck returned bitterly. "Because you feel _sorry_ for me. And believe me, I think it's very _noble_ of you," he added, infusing the word with a touch of sarcasm. "But you're better off sticking to foundations and girls' clubs."

Blair stared at him in flat-out astonishment. "You think I'm doing this…out of pity?" she sputtered.

"Because you don't think I can take care of myself," he replied. "Why else would you send Dan Humphrey over to _babysit_?"

"That's not why I sent him!" she insisted. "I sent him to _talk_ to you. Because you wouldn't talk to me, and I wanted you back!"

Chuck's eyes darted back and forth across her face—from her eyes to her mouth, and back again, as if he were trying to make sure they matched.

"What are you playing at, Blair?" he said, unconvinced. "You don't want me. You made that…_achingly_ clear."

"Of course I still want you, you idiot!" Blair exclaimed, raising her hands in frustration. "_God_!"

She let out a sigh, and tried to calm herself down. "I fucked up, and I'm _sorry_," she said in an emphatic voice. "_That's_ why I came here tonight. To apologize. And to ask you to give me another chance."

His expression suddenly hardening, Chuck emitted a cruel little chuckle.

"I get it," he said smugly, pursing his lips together and nodding to himself. "Things didn't work out with lover-boy, huh?" He gave his shoulders a sharp shrug. "Why else would you come running back to me?"

Blair's features fluttered in disbelief. "Chuck, I told him to leave me alone," she declared. "I have no intention of seeing him ever again. Or any other man besides you, for that matter."

Chuck rubbed his jaw, his face a war of countervailing emotions.

"I—" He fumbled for words, his eyes unfocused and strange.

"Don't you get it, Chuck?" Blair cried, her voice saturated with pain. "I'm not here because I pity you. I'm not here because you're my second choice. I'm here because I want you back. I'm _miserable_ without you."

Chuck let out a wretched laugh. "_You're_ miserable?" he repeated, his eyes wide with astonishment. "_You're_ miserable? _I'm_ miserable, Blair!"

His voice rose to a roar on the last sentence. And, suddenly, the words began to pour out of him, as though a floodgate inside him had broken.

"You—you don't understand," he faltered, his voice cracking with emotion. "I _have_ to go away. I can't stay here. Can't keep living in New York. Knowing that I'll run into you at any moment…rounding the next street corner…at the next _party_."

He paused, his chest wracking up and down, his breathing uneven and ragged. "I can't bear seeing you and knowing you aren't _mine_," he said. "You know that. You've always known that. And now you've come here to _torture me_.

"Goddammit, haven't you done enough?" he cried, covering his face with his hands. "Can't you just leave me alone!"

"No," Blair replied, having no other answer. "I can't."

There was a moment of silence before Chuck finally dropped his hands from his face.

"Just tell me the truth, Blair," he said in a weary, defeated voice. "What do you want from me?"

"_You_," she insisted, the word hitching in her throat. "I only want you."

"I don't believe you," he choked out, shaking his head. "I don't—"

Taking three quick steps towards him and laying her hands on his face, Blair pulled him into a kiss.

His lips moved underneath hers, responding to their caress—but numbly, confusedly, as if he were still unsure of her intentions. She could feel his fingers tentatively dart into her hair, tangling in her curls.

Suddenly, he wrenched himself away from her, his face contracting with pain.

"Then why'd you do it, Blair?" he said in a rough whisper. He swallowed, steadying himself. "_How_ could you do it?"

Blair let out a wounded noise. She couldn't help it—his words had pierced her to the heart.

"Because I was angry, and selfish, and stupid," she confessed. "And I made a terrible mistake." Grabbing both of his hands, she looked up at him imploringly. "But, I swear to God, Chuck—" She shook her head. "I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you. If you _let_ me."

Chuck let his eyes roam over their joined hands. He bit his lip.

"Take me back," Blair entreated, her throat tightening with nervousness. "_Please_."

He was silent.

Blair blinked back the tears that were welling over in her eyes. "I mean…" She let out a strange-sounding laugh. "How could it be any worse than it is now?"

Chuck coughed in surprise. "Well…you do have a point there, Waldorf," he conceded, his lips twisting into a bittersweet smile.

"So…" She stared up at him, waiting with trepidation for him to speak.

He cleared his throat. "I do have one condition," he said in a solemn whisper, tightening his grip on her hands. "And I'm afraid it's non-negotiable."

"What's that?" Blair asked breathlessly, her heart pounding in her chest.

Lifting his eyes, Chuck regarded her with a mixture of affection and pain. Suddenly, he looked more vulnerable than she'd ever thought a human being could look. Even in the low light, she could see that his dark eyelashes were glistening with tears.

"You still love me," he said hesitantly, his intonation rising on the last word as if he were in genuine doubt of her answer.

Blair exhaled in a burst.

"Of course I still love you!" she cried, throwing her arms around him and showering his face with kisses. "I love you," she repeated, kissing his forehead. "I love you." Her lips alighted on his eyes, his cheeks, his jaw line.

She stroked his face affectionately, gazing deeply into his eyes. "I love you," she murmured, awestruck, barely daring to believe that she'd been forgiven.

His face was like a rose—a bloom of relief set amidst thorns of pain. But his eyes were the same that they'd been years ago, on that fateful night that she'd leaned towards him, giddy with champagne and freedom, and recklessly pressed her lips against his.

"I love you too, Blair," he whispered—and kissed her.

She let out a soft moan of gratitude when his mouth opened into hers. Cradling his cheek in her palm, she traced her fingertips lightly down his jaw, plying open his mouth with eager thrusts of her tongue. His hand slid up the silk of her dress, coming to a rest at the small of her back, his fingers wrinkling the fabric as they dug into her skin.

They continued to kiss, and, half-beside herself with love and lust, Blair let her hands fall off of his shoulders and trail intimately down the plane of his chest…

Suddenly, Chuck drew back from her, breaking the kiss.

"What is it?" she said in a breathy voice, her fingers already curling around the thin band of leather at his waist.

"Blair—" he said, plucking her hands away from his belt. "It's just…"

He cleared his throat, looking conflicted and embarrassed. "I can't. Not tonight."

"Oh," Blair said with round eyes, blinking.

Chuck eyed the ground for a moment. "It's just too soon," he muttered, sounding strangely guilty.

"I…I understand," she replied in a whisper, trying to hide her disappointment. "Of course."

Reaching up, she draped her arms over his shoulders and nuzzled her face into his neck, and Chuck wrapped his arms around her, sighing.

Basking in the warmth of his arms, Blair laid her cheek against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, and let her head rise and fall with his breath. She inhaled his scent; she closed her eyes reverently.

They remained there, holding each other, for several minutes.

Sooner or later, both of them knew—they'd have to go back to the party. For now, though, their hearts were beating the same slow, contented rhythm, and their bodies were tight against each other's, swaying slightly back and forth, as if they were dancing to music that only they could hear.

Blair's finger began to trace idle circles on his lapel. "Chuck," she said in a hesitant voice, finally breaking the silence. "I'd do anything to make things right between us. You know that, right?"

"I know," he said gently. "But what you're doing right now is fine."

She tightened both of her arms around him in response.

"Hmm," he hummed with satisfaction. "That's even better."

"Anything else?" she asked, only half-joking.

She felt his lips brush against her temple in a kiss. And then she heard her lover speak four beautiful words. An imperative. An incantation. A prayer.

"Never let me go."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: A word of warning...Chuck and Blair aren't out of the woods yet. But I promise they will be by the end of the story.**

**Here I feel compelled to mention something...or someone. Many of you have probably noticed that I thank my "beta" at the end of each chapter. In fanfiction land (a wonderful, magical place), a beta is an editor, a confidant, a taskmaster (mistress?) and a conspirator. My story wouldn't be what it is without the help of one Maribells, who, by the way, is a very talented writer herself.**

**Keeping this in mind, I have composed a tribute. It is entitled**

**HOW I MET MY BETA**

**Terrabeth was a writer who got all her kicks  
><strong>**Coming up with atypical Chuck and Blair fics.  
><strong>**She once wrote a story called "Into the Woods"  
><strong>**And uploaded it—'cause she thought it was good.  
><strong>**She knew that some people would find her plot random,  
><strong>**But she was surprised at the cries from the fandom.  
><strong>**_"Chuck sleeps with Serena_****?" they shrieked. "_We're done_!"  
><strong>**She told them, "Relax. It was pre-season one."  
><strong>**But in spite of the fact that the story was labeled  
><strong>**"C/S pre-pilot," the reviews were enabled,  
><strong>**And anonymous readers began to leave flames  
><strong>**In which they neglected the use of their brains.  
><strong>**And out of surprise at the hate for her fanfic,  
><strong>**TB tried to explain it. (She was kinda pedantic.)  
><strong>**But nothing she could say to defend her work  
><strong>**Stopped the anons convinced that Chuck Bass was a jerk.  
><strong>**_"Why do you write Chuck and Blair? He's a bastard!"  
><em>****"'Cause when it comes to 'sexy,' he's got the art mastered."  
><strong>**_"He sold Blair for a hotel!" _****"Well, she's hurt him too."  
><strong>**_"Well, he's hurt her more!" _****TB was confused,  
><strong>**Because haters were telling her she had no business  
><strong>**To think that Chuck Bass deserved Waldorf's forgiveness,  
><strong>**And in spite of her story's meticulous logic,  
><strong>**She kept getting reviews that were fucking retarded.  
><strong>**But then came a reviewer (let's call her "M")  
><strong>**Who had chanced upon "Into the Woods" on a whim.  
><strong>**And with her trademark sarcasm and wit  
><strong>**She tore all of TB's detractors to bits:  
><strong>**"So I usually never review. It's a crime.  
><strong>**But some of these people are out of their minds.  
><strong>**Here's my advice to them—when you see a story  
><strong>**And you think its premise sounds awful or boring,  
><strong>**Don't bother to read it. Just leave it alone.  
><strong>**Don't leave reviews that are nothing but moans  
><strong>**About Chuck Bass's infamous bad boy behavior,  
><strong>**And whine that Blair needs for Dan Humphrey to save her.  
><strong>**TB told you up front—this fic's C/B endgame.  
><strong>**And you don't like it, the one you should blame  
><strong>**Is _yourself_, because nobody's making you read it.  
><strong>**TB, I like your story. I hope you complete it  
><strong>**Without any sickening D/B romance,  
><strong>**Because nothing's more likely to make me rant  
><strong>**Than a couple lacking all semblance of chemistry.  
><strong>**Dan and Blair stories make no fucking sense to me.  
><strong>**That's why I ignore them on the Gossip Girl list.  
><strong>**As far as I'm concerned, they just don't exist."  
><strong>**And TB was happy to have M's support,  
><strong>**And eventually they began to consort  
><strong>**And collaborate, writing fanfiction together.  
><strong>**And discovered that it made their stories much better,  
><strong>**They sent each other the drafts of their chapters,  
><strong>**And though it didn't help them to write any faster,  
><strong>**TB called on M when she was in a rut,  
><strong>**And M counted on TB to ask for "more smut."  
><strong>**So the moral, dear readers, as my poem ends,  
><strong>**Is that writing fanfic is more fun with a friend.  
><strong>**M—thanks for being a wonderful beta!  
><strong>**C/B 4ever! And fuck all the haters! :)**


	15. Cleanse Myself of All These Lies

They would have never thought it possible. But Dan Humphrey and Blair Waldorf had a date.

A standing date, that is.

Every Friday, at 4:30PM, they met up at a dive bar off Union Square, just before the rush at Happy Hour.

They had their own table, which the bartender reserved for them. It was a relatively private wooden booth, and they would sit there for a couple of hours over pints of stout, and together they'd go over the events of the past seven days.

They called it "Friday Bitch Fest," because—

"You bitch at each other the entire time?" Serena teased.

They were sitting side-by-side in the usual booth at the Old Fashioned, waiting for Blair to arrive, and Dan's hand was on the small of Serena's back, surreptitiously stroking the bare skin above the waistband of her ink wash jeans.

"No," Dan replied, amused. "Well—sometimes. But mostly we bitch _about_ things—people who annoy us…our classes…our various romantic woes…" He trailed off, a smile stretching across his face. "But I doubt that'll happen today. I mean, Blair and I have both had a very good week."

He slid his hand down her back to cradle the curve of her hip, and Serena flicked her eyes down towards his hand. Gazing up at him from underneath her lashes, she bit her lower lip flirtatiously, and he leaned over and kissed her on the lips.

Serena and Dan had been holed up at the Humphrey loft in Brooklyn for the better part of a week—eating Thai takeout, watching movies, and spending far more time out of their clothes than in. As a result, neither of them had had the chance to talk to Blair since the night of the Empire anniversary party, but they weren't particularly worried about her, Arm in arm with Chuck, she had walked back into the ballroom with a radiant look on her face, and they had spent the rest of the evening by each other's side.

Gossip Girl had reported on their whereabouts every single night since. The news feed was flooded with pictures of Blair and Chuck together—exiting limos, walking down red carpets, and standing side by side at society events, always in matching ensembles.

**The King and Queen of Manhattan have resumed their reign**, Gossip Girl had commented on a picture of Chuck and Blair at a fundraiser at the Metropolitan. **Whether it's a match made in heaven or a match made in hell, it looks like it's bound and determined to keep.**

"I feel bad that I haven't talked to Blair for a while," Serena said with a tinge of regret, as Dan twirled a loose strand of her blonde hair around his finger. "But from the looks of it…"

"Things are looking up?" he asked suggestively, glancing downwards at his lap. Serena was sliding her hand up his thigh…and her fingertips were brushing dangerously close to the zipper of his jeans…

Until she heard a familiar voice ask "Serena?" behind her back.

Jerking her hand out of Dan's lap, Serena pivoted around in her seat.

Blair Waldorf was standing at the foot of the booth, eyeing Serena's proximity to Dan with a disapproving crinkle in her nose.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. Her eyes shot over to Dan. "Besides feeling up Humphrey?" she added with obvious distaste, and returned her gaze to Serena.

"_B_," Serena greeted her in a cheery voice, and stood up to hug Blair. "I hope it's okay that I tagged along. Dan told me that you two usually meet up on Friday afternoons."

"Yeah, uh—sorry, Waldorf," Dan apologized, as Serena bent at the knees and slid back down into the seat beside him again. "I didn't think you would mind if I invited her. Besides," he said, shooting her a playful look, "I…just couldn't untangle her from my body. Not if my life depended on it."

Serena laughed, and pretended to bite Dan on the neck. "Om nom nom," she growled playfully, and he put his arm around her shoulder and kissed her on the tip of her nose.

"My little velociraptor," he cooed.

Blair made a gagging noise. "Spare me. Please."

Dan looked up at her. "Why are you suddenly being all 'down with love'?" he asked curiously. "I, uh, would have thought you'd be in a better good mood, all things considered."

Blair didn't say anything. She just flicked her finger at the bartender, signaling for a drink, and sat down across from them with a gloomy expression on her face.

Serena frowned. "B, what' s the matter? You looked so happy at the Empire Party—I thought you and Chuck made up."

"We _did_," Blair replied tersely. "We're officially back together again. It's just…things have been slightly more difficult than I anticipated, that's all."

"Well, what's the problem?" Dan asked. "Is he…I dunno. Giving you shit about Ma—" He cleared his throat. "Uh, you know. What happened?"

He took a quick draught from his pint glass, hoping that his little _faux pas_ would go unnoticed.

"No," Blair replied sullenly, raising her eyebrows to acknowledge the bartender as he set a martini in front of her. It had barely touched down on the table before she raised it to her mouth and took several greedy gulps of the murky liquid. "He hasn't even mentioned it at all," she added, hiding her mouth behind her hand as she let out a dainty burp.

"Well, that's good, right?" Serena offered in an encouraging voice. "That means he's willing to start over with a clean slate."

"That's what I thought," Blair returned. "At least, initially. But Chuck—he…" She hesitated. "He just hasn't been his usual self," she finished glumly.

"So…" Dan thought it over for a moment. "Is he…I don't know. Being cold? Distant?"

"Not exactly," she answered in a halting voice. "We've spent nearly every night this week together. And we've had a great time when we're out on the town. It's just…when we get back home…"

She broke off, her features sinking unhappily.

Serena's eyes widened. "Omigod," she said in a tone of realization. "You haven't slept together yet."

Blair opened her mouth to reply—and closed it again. Then she dropped her eyes to the table, exhaling through her nose.

"Oh, B, I'm so sorry," Serena consoled her best friend, reaching across the table to take her by the hand. "Tell me everything…starting with the party."

"Uh, Serena," Dan interjected, holding up his hand in alarm. "I may have forgotten to mention something important about Friday Bitch Fest. It's just—uh, there's this little thing called the oath—"

Blair rolled her eyes. "'I hereby solemnly swear that I will not share any information pertaining to the sexual preferences, practices and/or anatomy of Chuck Bass,'" she angrily recited. "_That's_ the oath. It forbids talking about sex. But that's the problem—there hasn't _been_ any. For the past six days. And by no sex, I mean nothing," she rattled off. "Nada, zip, ZILCH."

She put her face in her hands. "I'm at my wits' end," she confessed. "I mean, I figured he would need some time to get over it. But no sex? Not even make-up sex? For _six days_?" She sighed, removing her hands from her face. "I could kill myself—if f I weren't already dying of sexual frustration."

Dan grimaced. "Uh, Blair, this is still clearly sex-talk territory," he stammered. "Which is strictly forbidden by the terms of the Friday Bitch Fest contract. So…maybe we could talk about…I don't know, the emotional side of things?"

"How about I am supposed to talk about my emotional issues with Chuck without talking about the sex?" Blair griped. "Or _lack_ thereof," she corrected with an impatient wave of her hand. "They're inextricable."

"See, I'm sorry, but I just don't feel comfortable—" Dan started to say, but was quickly cut off by Serena.

"Um, Dan?" she offered in a gentle voice. "Maybe…I don't know—it might be better if I could talk to Blair alone for a while?"

Dan stared at her for a beat.

"You're—kicking me out?" he said, astonished. "Of Friday Bitch Fest? I _co-established_ Friday Bitch Fest."

"Don't think of it as being kicked out," Serena said, clasping his hand affectionately. "It's just…" She sighed, and shrugged her shoulders. "This is girl talk, that's all."

Dan blinked. "And what am I supposed to do while you two have your 'girl talk?'" he asked. "Sit at the bar and twiddle my thumbs?"

"You could get a haircut?" Blair suggested brightly, her eyes darting towards the misshapen mop atop Dan's head.

"Or you could work on the draft of that short story you're writing," Serena quickly interjected. "It was in a really good place, last I saw."

Dan looked back and forth between them, obviously displeased with this turn of events.

"It won't take more than a few minutes," Serena said. "Promise."

With an aggrieved sigh, Dan shuffled over in his seat, and Serena stood up to let him exit the booth. He turned back and snagged his pint with one hand, and then walked across the room to the bar and settled down on a bar stool.

"So," Serena said in an intent voice, peering at Blair. "Tell me—what's been going on with Chuck?"

Blair took in a deep breath. "We go out," she reported. "We have a nice time. But when we get back to the penthouse…he always says that he has to make some calls before bed. And then he stays in his office for _hours_. And when he comes to bed…" She swallowed. "I try to…I don't know, be sexy. _Touch_ him. But he always kisses me, and says he's too tired. And then he turns over and pretends to fall asleep. But he's _not_ asleep—I can tell. His breathing's shallow; his heart's beating too fast. And in the mornings, he jumps up and heads off to 'meetings' before I have the chance to say or do anything."

She shook her head, blinking back tears. "I just worry…that I've lost him. And it's just a matter of time before he realizes it too," she finished sadly.

Serena's face radiated sympathy. "Have you…tried to talk about him about it?" she asked, as Blair blotted her cheeks underneath her eyes with a handkerchief.

"This morning," she answered with a sniffle. "But…it didn't go very well."

**—**

Once again, Blair awoke to discover that Chuck was still sleeping on the other side of the bed.

Blinking, she turned over and shifted across the mattress towards him, trying not to disturb him with her movements. He was lying on his side, facing away from her, but she could tell from the slow rise and fall of his chest that he was dead asleep.

So she carefully wrapped her arm around his waist, and nestled her body into the S-shaped curve of his back and knees.

She matched the rhythm of her breathing to his; she felt his heart pulse against her furled hand. Closing her eyes, she nuzzled her face into the nape of his neck and inhaled his familiar scent into her lungs.

After a few moments, her eyes snapped fluttered open, and she let out a quiet sigh of disappointment through her nose.

A week ago, she'd have done anything to be in this position—lying in bed by Chuck's side, feeling the warmth of his body against hers. But in spite of her proximity to him, she felt as though he were a hundred miles away.

He just wasn't the same. During their nights out on the town, he occasionally took her by the arm while walking into a reception, or pressed his palm into the small of her back to guide her through a crowded room, but she suspected it was mostly for appearances' sake. And when he kissed her, she couldn't help feeling as though he did so out of duty rather than genuine affection—his kisses were too short, too polite, as though they were betrothed strangers rather than the ardent lovers they'd always been.

Lately, she felt as though a thick, invisible curtain were hanging in the air between them. It was only by tremendous effort that she could bring herself to take him by the hand—she was still so guilty about her offense that the distance between them seemed nearly impassible, and he had brushed her off so many times that she was beginning to fear any additional rejections.

Spooning him while he was asleep was the most physical contact she'd managed since the night of the Empire anniversary party. And she took it eagerly, like a starving women grasping at breadcrumbs.

Suddenly, she felt Chuck began to stir and writhe underneath her arm, and she quickly drew it back, feeling an involuntary pang of guilt that she'd been touching him without his knowledge or permission.

He turned over onto his back, yawning, and raised his arms over his head, hands interlocked at the fingers and turned up at the palms. At the same time, he pointed his toes down towards the end of the mattress, elongating his entire body like a cat stretching after a nap.

He rubbed his eyes sleepily for a moment, and then turned his head towards her.

"Hey," he said, his voice deeper than usual. It always was in the morning.

"Hey," she whispered, and, steeling herself, laid her hand down on his chest.

In happier times he would have grabbed her hand and lifted it to his lips. Kissed it soundly. And then turned towards her, pulling her more tightly against him, and begun to nibble at her neck…

Instead he pretended to yawn again, and ran his hand over his face.

"I need to get up," he said, after a perfunctory glance at the clock on the nightstand. "I've got a meeting with the managerial staff at ten."

"It's only 7:30," Blair countered affectionately, summoning the courage to stroke her hand down his chest.

"I've got some papers to read over first," he returned, plucking her hand off of his body and gently depositing it on the bed beside him. In one swift motion, he threw off the duvet and swung his legs over the side of the bed, and Blair watched in silent disappointment as he stood up and wrapped himself in a robe.

Jesus, it's like he's putting on a suit of armor, she thought.

"You didn't read over them last night?" she asked him in a slightly sharper tone. "You were in your office until two."

"I was looking over a renovation plan for the third floor conference rooms," Chuck replied, securing the tie of the robe at his waist.

He looked around the room, furrowing his brow, and rolled the sleeves of his robe down over his forearms and wrists. "Is it just me, or is it cold in here?" he muttered.

"It's just you." Blair couldn't help answering in a dry tone.

Chuck stole a suspicious glance at her, and then turned away to clear his throat. "Blair, I'm sorry I don't have time to stay in bed and _cuddle_ with you," he said, infusing the word with the tiniest hint of antagonism. "But I do have a business to run."

"A business that's doing very well right now," she immediately reminded him.

"Exactly," he answered, picking up the phone on the nightstand and pushing the button for room service. "And I can't afford it to neglect it at such a crucial time. This is my chance to—yes, hello, Mallory," he said, shifting his tone to a more formal one. "Could you please send up breakfast? The usual—but a double espresso this morning, please." There was a pause. "Yes, Miss Waldorf would like breakfast too," he said, glancing at Blair. "Thanks."

He hung up the phone. "As I was saying," he continued in his most business-y voice, "this is my chance to solidify the Empire's reputation and ensure its continued success in the future. Everyone's watching me now. And I'm not going to give them any reason to doubt me."

Blair swallowed, trying hard to not to reveal how frustrated she was.

She knew that Chuck wasn't throwing himself into meetings and renovation plans because of any renewed zeal for running the Empire. No—he was hiding from her. Keeping his distance. Keeping _safe_. He may have taken her back—out of desperation, misery, or love….she didn't even know anymore. But he still hadn't forgiven her, and he still didn't trust her enough to be intimate with her.

Maybe Chuck could convince himself that he was happy this way, but she couldn't. Not anymore. And no matter how difficult it was, she was going to have to open their wounds to heal them.

"What about _our_ future, Chuck?" she said, and looked up at him with a quiet strength in her eyes.

He stared back at her for a moment. "What do you mean?" he muttered.

"Chuck…" she began.

Sweeping her hair back from her face, she pulled herself up to sit on her knees on the bed.

"Don't you think we need to talk about what happened?" she asked, folding her hands in her lap.

Chuck's jaw tightened. "There's no point," he said shortly. "It happened. It's over. We're moving on."

"No, we're not," she answered in a voice tight with emotion. "We really—need to discuss it. There's things you need to know, and—"

"Blair," he interrupted her. "I don't want to hear about you and—" Shaking his head, he cut himself off. "I've heard enough about it, and it only made me upset. It didn't help anything. And if we bring it up, we're only going to fight. And I don't want to fight with you right now."

"But we _are_ fighting now," Blair protested.

"Yeah—for absolutely no reason. So let's just drop it, and get the hell on with our lives."

He turned his back to her, and began to walk out of the room, and Blair took in a deep breath and gathered her courage.

"I can't go on like this, Chuck," she declared in a vehement voice that echoed through the bedroom.

Chuck stopped in his tracks and turned around slowly, staring back at her with trepidation in his eyes.

"What are you saying, Blair?" he said warily. "A week ago you were begging me to take you back. And now you're…having second thoughts?"

Blair shook her head to dispel his suspicions. "I still want to be with you, more than ever," she replied honestly. "But it's killing me to be with you like _this_."

"Like what?"

She lowered her eyes. "You barely even touch me anymore," she said in a small voice.

"_That's_ what this is about?" Chuck's expression was incredulous. "Blair, I've been far too busy—"

"_Right_," she cut him off. "You're too busy. You have a headache. You're _tired_."

"I _am_ tired," he exclaimed, turning his hands up in exasperation. "What—I'm not allowed to be tired?"

Blair rolled her eyes. "Chuck Bass hasn't been too tired for sex since _never_."

"As you once reminded me, Blair, I'm not a _teenager anymore_," he threw back. "I'm an adult. With adult responsibilities. And sometimes they take precedence over my libido."

"This has nothing to do with your libido—or lack thereof," Blair returned testily. "The problem is…"

She paused for a moment to calm herself down. "You don't want to be close to me anymore," she continued in a lower, sadder tone. "You're—_scared_ to get too close to me. Because of…what happened."

She realized that she was incapable of talking about her affair in anything but the most roundabout way. Broaching the topic was going to be even harder than she'd thought, to say nothing of having an honest conversation with Chuck.

Chuck let out a barking laugh. "That's ridiculous. We've spent nearly every night this week together."

"Barely touching," she countered. "Barely kissing. Barely—anything."

"You're reading too much into this," he said with a dismissive motion of his hand.

"Am I?" she asked with a skeptical upwards dart of her eyebrows.

She slid off the bed and walked across the room toward him. Then she lifted her hand to touch his cheek, and he flinched, looking startled.

Usually Blair Waldorf relished winning an argument. This was not one of those times.

"See?" she said miserably, letting her hand fall back down to her side.

Chuck bit his lip and turned his head to one side, and a moment of loaded silence passed between them.

"There may be something to what you're saying," he finally conceded, looking at the floor. "But…we just need some time, that's all. Things'll go back to normal eventually."

The pained look on his face hurt Blair's heart.

He was _trying_, she realized. He was doing his best to work through the pain in the only way that he knew how—by denying it. Burying it deep inside of him, and hoping it would magically disappear.

But that wasn't going to be enough.

"We need more than just time, Chuck," she said in the gentlest possible voice. "Maybe we should…talk to someone."

"Like a therapist?" Chuck scoffed. "I don't think so."

"It could help," she offered hopefully.

"Telling a complete stranger all of our problems?" His voice was bitter and angry. "Not fucking likely."

"Chuck—" She tried to interrupt him, but he cut her off with a swiping motion of his hand.

"I'm not going to a shrink, Blair," he said in a tone that brokered no disagreement. (She was astounded at how much he sounded like his father.) "I'm surprised that you'd even suggest it. I have enough trouble trusting the people I _do_ know."

Blair blew out a sigh of disappointment and frustration. "That's exactly why you need to talk to a professional," she countered. "It could be beneficial for both of us. We have a lot of issues to work out together, and—"

"The only thing I need to do right now is to shower," he interrupted her. "Excuse me."

Blair compressed her lips and exhaled through her nose, trying to keep her temper in check.

"Right," she muttered, resigning herself to giving up her efforts for the time being. "I should probably shower too."

In happier times, of course, Chuck would have invited her to join him in the shower. Washed her hair with strong, circling motions of his fingertips on her scalp. Soaped her body with slow, caressing motions of his hands. Turned her around to kiss her, their bodies pressing together, with hot rivulets of water running over and between them…

Instead, to her dismay, he said, "I'll make mine quick. Or you can use Nate's bathroom."

He made a motion to leave, but then came to an abrupt stop, and she watched him in confusion as he lingered in front of her for a couple of seconds, as if he were deliberating something.

He took in a quick breath and let it out in a burst, and then he raised his hands to her face. Gliding his fingertips down her temples to her cheeks, he tilted his head forward, and kissed her tenderly on the lips.

Raising her hands to his shoulders, she tried to prolong the kiss, but his spine stiffened and he pulled away from her almost immediately.

"I—" He paused for a moment, biting his lips. "I still love you, Blair," he whispered. "Even if I can't…show it—in the usual ways…"

"I know," Blair replied sadly, looking up into his eyes.

"It'll get better," he said with a touch too much confidence, setting his hand down on her shoulder awkwardly. "_We'll_ get better. You'll see."

He left the room, and, with neither hope nor conviction in his words, she watched him go.

**—**

"Maybe I'm overly hung up on the sex thing," Blair confessed to Serena, who was still holding her hand across the scarred surface of the wooden table at the bar. "But I just know that…until we do, I'll feel like he hasn't forgiven me. Not completely."

She paused. "Unless we can find some way to talk about—the fact that I slept with someone else—" (She half-said, half-coughed the last phrase.) "_God_, it's so hard to say that out loud…"

Serena squeezed her hand.

"We're just going to stay in this…in-between state," Blair went on. "Together, but not _really_ together. Like we're just _pretending_ to be a couple."

"Well, sex and intimacy aren't the same thing," Serena said in a consoling tone. "Maybe you could rebuild your relationship by spending time together…you know. Doing other things."

Blair's brow furrowed skeptically. "Like what?"

"I dunno," she mumbled, shrugging. "Holding hands…watching romantic movies…making hot chocolate..."

She remembered the first time Dan made hot chocolate for her. They had been sitting on the couch at the loft, watching "It Happened One Night" on his laptop, and she had stuck her finger into the whipped cream, scooping out a big dollop, and playfully offered it to him.

By the time she actually drank her hot chocolate, it was cold chocolate.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," Blair said in disgust. "That sounds like something two sixty-year-old lesbians with a decades-old case of bed-death would do. Chuck and I are a young couple in the prime of our lives. We should be having sex, and lots of it."

"Blair, from what you told me, it sounds like you two need to have a serious talk first," Serena pointed out. "Jumping into bed together might not make things better. It might even make them _worse_."

Blair pondered this for a moment.

"You're probably right," she admitted with an unhappy sigh. "But I can't get him to talk to me. And I can't get him to have sex with me until after we've talked. And we're not going to reestablish intimacy unless we have sex. So we're in a stalemate, and I can't see any way out of it."

"Well, maybe you should talk to a therapist on your own, if you can't get Chuck to go."

"Maybe," Blair replied, her expression sobering. "I just…" She paused. "I want him so _badly_, Serena. I just want things to be like they used to be. I really don't know how much more of this I can stand." Her mouth twisted as she fought back tears.

Serena stroked her friend's hand with a tender expression in her eyes.

"I'm sorry, B," she murmured, not knowing what else to say.

**—**

**Later that evening.**

Chuck Bass washed his hands under a stream of hot running water in a porcelain basin, and slicked back a couple of stray strands of his hair. After tweaking his bow tie back into a crisp knot, he exited the men's room and sauntered back into the reception area, glancing around for Blair's emerald green dress.

He couldn't stop thinking about their talk earlier that day.

He knew what he needed to do. Set his misgivings aside. Get over his sudden sex-phobia. And have one glorious night between the sheets with Blair. And everything would fine.

But when he spotted Blair across the room, his heart plummeted in his chest.

She was chatting intimately with a tawny-haired man by the bar. He was clasping her hand and whispering in her ear, and she was laughing and flirtatiously stroking her fingers down his lapel.

Chuck felt anger erupt inside of him with the force of a supernova.

No way. No fucking way.

He quickly walked up to Blair and grabbed her by the wrist, and she whirled around, looking startled. But as soon as she recognized him, a radiant smile spread across her face, and he blinked in surprise at the warmth of response.

"And here he is now," she cooed. "Jean-Claude, this is my boyfriend, Chuck Bass."

Chuck turned and looked at the tawny-haired man—who, aside from his height and hair color, bore no resemblance to Jason Mackendry whatsoever.

Not to mention the fact that he was obviously, openly, flamboyantly gay.

"Oh, you're _riiight_," Jean-Claude said with obvious approval, giving Chuck a head-to-toe once-over that went on five seconds too long. "He _is_ dishy."

"Told you," Blair chirped proudly.

Chuck let out a surprised laugh to hide his momentous relief.

"And what a gorgeous suit," Jean-Claude continued, reaching out to rub the fabric of Chuck's sleeve between his thumb and forefinger. "Armani?"

"Right on the money," he admitted.

"The man knows his fashion," Blair continued, glancing at Jean-Claude conspiratorially. "We were just chatting about the obvious knock-offs in the corner over there." She gestured towards the offending parties with a slight angling of her head.

"God, if you're going to copy something, at least copy something _good_," Jean-Claude said, sipping his glass of white wine.

"I couldn't agree more," Blair replied in an equally bitchy tone, as they both erupted into snickers.

Chuck cleared his throat.

"Um, if you'll excuse us, Jean-Claude," he said in a friendly tone, taking Blair by the hand and entwining his fingers with hers. "Blair and I should go—we've got another event to head off to. It was a pleasure to meet you, though."

"A pleasure, indeed," Jean-Claude returned in a saucy voice, cocking an eyebrow at Chuck. He leaned forward and air-kissed Blair on the cheek. "Au revoir, sweetie. Friend me."

"Definitely," Blair threw back at him as Chuck pulled her away.

"What was that about?" she murmured to him as they navigated their way through the crowded room. "We don't have another event on our agenda for the evening."

"Yes, we do," he replied.

**—**

As soon as Arthur shut the limo door behind them, Chuck slid closer to Blair across the leather seat.

"I've been thinking about what you said this morning," he told her in a low voice, taking her hand and stroking it suggestively with his finger.

Blair was so shocked by this unexpected contact that she dropped her purse on the floor.

"…and?" she replied, feeling a nervous hitch in her stomach.

Without another word, Chuck leaned forward and began to kiss her, and she let out a grateful "mmm" against his mouth and responded with equal parts passion and recklessness.

For a moment or two, she lost herself in the sensation of his kiss—his lips moving over hers, his tongue thrusting eagerly into her mouth—but she forced herself to pull away from him after few seconds.

"What's gotten into you all of a sudden?" she breathed at him, her eyes searching his face for an explanation.

"I thought this was what you wanted," he quickly replied, running his hand up her leg and squeezing at the flesh of her hip.

"It is," she murmured. "More than anything. But—"

"Good," he cut her off in a low growl. "Because I need to be inside you. _Now_."

Blair felt a hot flush of arousal bloom in her cheeks. Chuck was already kneeling down on the limo floor in front of her; he was pushing up the pooled fabric of her skirt…

"Chuck—"

In response he jerked her underwear off her hips and down to her heels, moistened a finger in his mouth and slid it inside of her.

"Ohh," she moaned with startled pleasure. He rose up for a moment to steal another kiss, and she tangled her fingers in his hair and responded to the motions of his mouth—all the while feeling his finger move inside of her in a slow, tantalizingly sexual rhythm.

"Good?" he breathed into her neck as he gently thumbed her clit, and she answered with a helpless whimper of affirmation. It had been so long since he'd touched her this way that she could barely restrain herself from bucking her hips into his hand.

He kissed and sucked at the skin of her neck; he nipped it between his teeth. "Tell me you're mine, Blair," she heard him groan in muted desperation.

"I'm yours," she said breathlessly. "All yours—only yours."

Backing away from her, he began to fumble at his belt.

"Chuck," she said with some effort, lifting her hand. "Wait a second."

"_What_?" he answered with evident impatience, dropping his hands from his belt. "I thought you wanted to have sex. Isn't that what you were telling me this morning?"

"I do, it's just…" She hesitated. "Do you...do you have a condom?"

Chuck stared at her for a couple of seconds. Then he sat down on his haunches on the floor, looking confused.

"No," he said, plainly not expecting to have this conversation. "Why—did you miss a pill or something?"

Blair felt her face flutter like it always did when she was contemplating an audacious lie. God, it would be so easy to just say "yes" and leave it at that. But she couldn't. Not now. Not with Chuck looking at her like that.

"No," she said, trying to fight off her discomfort. "I—it's just…. She trailed off, looking distressed. "I just want to be safe," she muttered at the floor.

"Why wouldn't we be safe?" Chuck said in a tone of disbelief.

Blair fell silent in the vain hope that he would figure out her meaning on his own.

After a couple of moments, his face dawned with understanding.

"Is this—" He coughed, looking flustered. "Is this about Wendy?"

Blair's head swung up. "_No_," she immediately replied in a wary voice, her features shifting with suspicion. "What does _she_ have to do with this?"

Instead of answering, Chuck guilty averted his eyes.

Blair's mouth fell open, and she made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat.

"You _slept with her_," she seethed at him, crossing her arms over her chest and turning to look out of the window. "Of course you did. God, you fall into the same old self-destructive patterns every single—"

Stopping mid-sentence, she closed her eyes and clenched her jaw. As much as she wanted to be angry with Chuck right now, she knew that playing the blame game would only end badly—especially for her.

"It didn't mean anything, Blair," he said wearily. "You know that. And we were safe. We're always safe."

"Thank God for that," she couldn't help grumbling. "The woman is probably a cornucopia of STDs."

"Blair—" Chuck closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You don't have anything to worry about, trust me. Wendy's _meticulous_ about protection, and she gets tested every two weeks, for _everything_. She's probably the safest sex partner I've ever had, with the possible exception of you."

Blair swallowed, feeling intensely uncomfortable again.

"Besides, you slept with someone else too," he said with obvious malice. "While we were _together_, I might add. At least I had the courtesy to wait until after we'd broken up."

"I know that I slept with someone else," she retorted angrily. "I…that's what I wanted to talk to you about. I tried to talk to you about it this morning too, but you wouldn't let me."

"Well, as long as you were safe, I don't see what the problem is," Chuck impatiently replied, obviously hoping to end the argument as quickly as possible.

When she didn't reply, he raised his eyebrows at her. "Blair?" he asked, a worried edge creeping into his voice.

"Not as safe as I should have been," she admitted quietly.

Chuck gaped at her for several seconds.

"You let him fuck you without a condom?" he said incredulously.

"I—" Blair couldn't find the words to continue, but she supposed it didn't matter. She knew that the expression on her face was enough to confirm that he was right.

Chuck took in a deep breath and let it out. "_Blair_."

"It wasn't…the entire time," she offered feebly.

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"He didn't come inside me," she cried. "_Okay_? He…pulled out."

She felt an absurd surge of anger at Chuck. God, why he was making her spell out every little detail? Wasn't the truth horrible enough?

"So what, he came _on_ you?" Chuck asked, his voice high-pitched and strained. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

Flushing with shame, Blair turned her head towards the window to hide her face.

Chuck let out a tortured laugh and shook his head several times. "Jesus Christ, Blair," he said. "What the fuck were you thinking?

"I…I wasn't thinking."

"_Clearly_," he spat.

"It all happened so fast," she pathetically excused herself.

"Too fast to put on a fucking condom?"

"We—" She fought to get out the words that were catching in her throat. "We did use a condom…the second time."

Chuck recoiled.

"Oh, well, that's good," he exclaimed, infusing every word with mock relief. "Except that means you fucked him _twice_!"

"It was more like…one extended session," she said in an utterly miserable voice.

Chuck wrenched himself up from the floor, sat down on the seat opposite Blair, and planted his face in his hands.

"Jesus, Blair," he groaned into the space between his palms. "Why did you even tell me this?"

"I just…I wanted to be safe, that's all," she faltered. "I… my gyno says it's extremely unlikely that I could have contracted anything. I just…wanted to be absolutely, 100% sure."

"Well, thank you for being so fucking considerate," he said through his teeth, his hands hovering an inch away from his face. "Did you take a pregnancy test too?"

Blair shook her head. "I had my period last week."

Chuck replanted his face in his hands, and she watched him with tearful eyes, feeling awful, guilty, abject. And yet, strangely enough, she also felt a wave of calmness spreading over her, _enveloping_ her, from the top of her head down to the tips of her toes.

She had confessed everything—finally. There was nothing more that she needed to tell him.

Silence hung over the limo cab for nearly a minute. It eventually grew oppressive, and she began to fidget in her seat.

Wanting to do something, but not knowing what to say (or how to say it), she tentatively reached across the gap between the seats to touch his knee—but he immediately swatted her hand away.

"I am so fucking pissed at you," he half-yelled, looking up at her through tear-blurred eyes.

He gave his head a violent series of shakes, and turned to stare at the floor. "I don't want to be," he admitted in quieter voice. "I've tried not to be. But I am."

"You have every right to be," Blair admitted, her eyes also shining with tears.

Well, at least they were finally talking about what happened, she thought. Though this wasn't exactly what she had in mind…

She tried to set her hand against his shoulder, but he jerked it away angrily.

"Chuck," she pleaded once more. "Please. Look at me."

"How the fuck am I supposed to look at you?" he cried, not looking at her. His eyes were half-focused, floating on some indeterminate space a few feet in front of him. "All I can see is HIM. With his hands all over you. Kissing you. _Fucking_ you."

Blair pressed her hand hard against her mouth to stifle a sob.

"_God_," he exhaled. "You were right. Time isn't going to fix this. We'd need a _miracle_ to fix this."

"Don't say that," she said in a wavering voice, but, to her horror, the next sentence that came out of his mouth was much, much worse:

"We never should have gotten back together."

Blair's chin began to wobble. "But…we love each other," she protested weakly, blinking back tears. "We _need_ each other. We said—"

"We weren't ready, Blair," Chuck said in a despairing voice. "You know we weren't ready. You put up a good front, but you were still pissed at me for everything—all that business with Jack. Jenny. _Serena_."

Blair quickly realized that he wasn't talking about the night of the Empire anniversary party. He was talking about two months ago—when they'd thought they'd be able to forgive each other everything, simply because they were so achingly, desperately in love with each other.

But ignoring their problems hadn't worked. She knew that now. Problems were like demons, shape-shifting at will. They took on different forms, but they always came back with a vengeance.

"And I still didn't trust you," Chuck went on bitterly. "And I tried so hard—_too_ hard—to keep you close to me. And instead I ended up driving you away. Right into another man's arms."

"That wasn't your fault," she rebuked him gently.

"I know it wasn't. But that doesn't change the fact that we shouldn't have gotten back together. We should have waited. Then maybe we'd have finally gotten things right between us, instead of fucking everything up for the fifteenth time in a row. But now—with the way things are…" He sighed. "There's just no way we can fix it. Not on our own. Not in a million years."

Blair slowly drew back from him, shell-shocked at his words. She leaned back against the limo seat. She blinked.

_So…that's it_, she thought_, _feeling more empty than she'd ever felt before_._ _This is the end. For real this time._

"Wait—what?" Chuck jerked up his head. "Blair, what are you talking about?"

She suddenly realized she'd been speaking out loud.

"You—" she stammered. Her entire body was trembling. "You said…getting back together was a mistake…"

"It _was_ a mistake," he said sharply. "But we can't change our past. We can only change our present."

_Our_ present. He said _our_ present, she thought dazedly.

"So—you're…you're not dumping me?" she peeped in a small voice.

"_No_," Chuck retorted, looking at her with a baffled expression. "What the hell gave you that idea?"

She opened her mouth and closed it again.

"Blair, two months ago, I told myself that I would stick by you through anything," Chuck explained, gesturing between them with an elegant, back-and-forth swoop of his hand. "_This_…" He let out a deep breath. "This is anything."

Blair set her hand against her racing heart, hardly daring to believe what she was hearing. "So…we're still together?"

"Of course we're still together," he said with a scowl. "Unless you're objecting to that?"

She shook her head dumbly.

"Good." He let out another frustrated sigh. "Then here's what we're going to do. Tonight, I'm going to take you home. And, you—I don't know, you're going to take a nice long bath, or whatever you need to do to fall asleep. And tomorrow morning, you're going to come to the Empire, and then we're going to find the most exorbitantly expensive therapist in all of Manhattan. And make her sign the most iron-tight confidentiality agreement that has ever been written in the history of mankind."

Blair lifted her hand to her mouth and let out a strange, joyful laugh.

"And then I assume we're going to do whatever the hell it is that people do in therapy," Chuck continued grumpily. "Get hypnotized, look at ink-blotches, whatever. I don't care. But we are going to fucking fix this if it kills us. Which it very well might."

He let out a surprised noise when Blair threw herself into his arms. After pausing a moment and taking in a deep breath, he raised his hand to her back and stroked it awkwardly, his hand gliding up-and-down over the silken fabric of her dress.

"I love you, Chuck Bass," she mumbled into his shoulder.

"And I love you too," he said with a resigned sigh. "So…I guess that means we're stuck with each other, Waldorf. We might as well make the best of it."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I lost a lot of my original Author's Notes when I reedited this story, but I think I had one here that said - this is the end of the angst! Well, mostly. The story does get a lot happier from here on out. **


	16. Guidance to be True

Blair Waldorf was typing furiously.

They'd finally found a therapist. After a rigorous audition process, during which they'd interviewed no fewer than fourteen well-established therapists on the Upper West and the Upper East Sides, she and Chuck had settled on Brenda Goldfarb, LCSW, a stylish woman in her mid forties with a specialty in couple's therapy and sexual disorders, as their top choice.

Ms. Goldfarb certainly had her work cut out for her, Blair thought glumly, staring at her "compose" window.

She was at work on a very, very long email, detailing the various ups and downs that she and Chuck had suffered over the course of their tumultuous relationship. During their first session, they'd both referred to past grievances in an oblique manner that had left their new therapist thoroughly confused, so Blair had decided to provide her with some helpful notes so that she could keep their history straight.

She'd also organized them into a chronological list for easy reference.

Fighting the urge to edit her prose—knowing that if she did, this behemoth of an email would never, ever be finished—Blair winced and bent her hands back to stretch out her wrists. Carpal tunnel had begun to set in around item #37.

Returning her fingers to the keyboard, she typed:

_#52 Chuck starts dating Raina, whom I privately call "Plaina." (The girl isn't especially pretty.) She's the daughter of his self-professed rival, so not only it is a terrible personal decision, but also a total business snafu. Plaina's not as irritating as St. Eva Magdalene (see #46-47), but she has all the personality of a stick that's fallen off a tree._

_Anyways. While I may or may not have been spying on Chuck in his boudoir, I overhear him professing affection for said creature. I sink into a dark black pit of despair and accept the meager comforts that Dan Humphrey has to offer. Serena's not available for some reason that escapes me at the moment. Oh right, because she's dating this creepy molester guy who used to be her high school English teacher and LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE HER, only male. And a convicted felon. The poor decision-making of everyone around me must be infectious or something, because during this time I end up having a one-night stand with a total stranger. Hey, I have needs too—don't judge._

_#53 Chuck gets dumped by Plaina and finds out some bad news about his father. (It turns out to be untrue, of course, just like those reports last month that he had been spotted alive and well on a beach on the Virgin Islands. Can you think of a more ridiculous rumor than Bart Bass faking his own death?) Chuck finally remembers that I exist and hatches the half-brained notion that I'm bumping uglies with Dan Humphrey (ugh, as _if!_). He gets trashed with Serena, who has randomly decided that she loves Humphrey again after getting dumped by creepy molester guy. What is it about getting dumped that turns people into total lunatics? They drop the bomb that they hooked up sophomore year, before Chuck and I got together. Totally gross and reprehensible, am I right? At least Chuck admits that he did it to get a rise out of me because he's deathly jealous. A glimpse of vulnerability beneath the steely exterior of a powerful man is one of my secret turn-ons. He also asks me to be his business partner. Executive-level scheming is one of my not-so-secret turn-ons. Chuck and I get back together._

_#54 Weeks of bliss follow. Then one day Chuck and I are getting ready for a gala when he tells me that he's committed to an investment without _ME_, his supposed partner! I do not react well to being treated like an afterthought, and we have a big fight._

_At the gala, I drink a lot and run into my former one-night stand (see #52). He harangues me into dancing with him. Chuck sees us dancing and, not being a total idiot, figures out that we have a history. He loses his temper and drags me out of there. We fight in the limo; he forcibly takes my phone from me and deletes one-night stand's number from it. I am pissed and go home. I'm brooding by the duck pond the next day when the one-night stand shows up and apologizes. I tell him thanks and goodbye, in that order, but manage to fall and skin my knee as I'm walking away. One-night stand takes me to his apartment and fixes my knee. In one misguided, imbecilic moment, I hug him, NOT because I'm trying to get with him—I am_ _so not even thinking about that—but because I am just so emotionally exhausted and he is being so nice to me. But then he kisses me and I get swept away. We have sex. In the interests of full disclosure, twice._

_I immediately know that it's a mistake, because I feel like throwing up all over myself. I contemplate not telling Chuck, but I can't not tell him. I can't even look him in the face without wanting to die. So I tell him and he tells me to GTFO. Emotionally devastated, I enlist Dan Humphrey to help me get Chuck back. Humphrey fails almost immediately, as I probably should have anticipated. Then he hatches a new plan and recruits Nate and Serena to our cause. Trampy redheaded hooker that I'd rather not talk about also helps a little. I make a big dramatic speech at the Empire anniversary party and Chuck takes me back. Thank God!_

_#55 Chuck and I are back together again. Yay, right? Only, not so much. He won't talk about anything that happened. I mean, you know that already—you saw him during our first session. Most of the time he just sat there looking like he'd rather be anywhere else on the planet. He's admitted that he's still angry about my infidelity, but every time I try to talk to him about it, he shuts down. There is no intimacy of either the emotional or physical variety (_ahem_), and hasn't been since we got back together. In short, our relationship kind of sucks._

Blair took a deep breath. Blew a strand of hair off of her forehead.

_So. Do you think you can help us?_

She hesitated.

_Please say yes,_ she added. _The other therapists on the short list have terrible decorating schemes._

She clicked "send."

**—**

**Six weeks later.**

"Of course it makes me upset," Blair cried.

"Now, Blair," Brenda gently said. She was sitting in her black leather Eames chair, one thin trousered leg crossed over the other, holding a pen poised against a notepad in her manicured hand. "You asked him to be honest."

"I asked him to be honest—_yes_," Blair angrily agreed. "I did _not_ ask him to tell me that he was jerking off to porn every night!"

"Not _every_ night," Chuck muttered. Over the past minute he had slowly edged away from Blair until he was sitting as far away from her as possible.

Blair didn't even look at him. "Whatever!" she squawked.

"You asked him if he'd been having any sexual feelings, and he told you the truth, even though the truth wasn't very easy to tell," Brenda reminded her. "It's commendable of him."

"I'm sorry," Blair returned in an acid-laced voice, "but in what warped view of monogamous relationships is an emergent porn addiction _commendable_?"

She gestured above her head at the framed diplomas hanging on the office wall. "I mean, did they teach you that at _Columbia_?" she continued, her voice rising. "Perhaps our PI should have performed a more rigorous investigation of your background in psychology."

"Blair, please don't take this out on her," Chuck uncovered his eyes long enough to say.

"Why?" Blair demanded, her head swiveling to face him. "Am I interrupting your sexual fantasies about _her_ now, too?"

"Blair, why don't you take a minute to process," Brenda said. It was not a question.

Blair closed her eyes, took in a deep breath and let it out quickly. Then she repeated the operation. She sounded like a pregnant woman doing Lamaze.

Chuck, on the other hand, just leaned forward with a sigh, setting his elbows on his knees, and looked at the floor directly in front of him. He did this in a manner that suggested he was used to Blair "taking a minute to process" on a regular basis.

"Blair, when Chuck admitted to using pornography you had a very strong reaction," Brenda was saying.

"Wow, your grasp of human emotions is astounding," Blair returned. It was clear to everyone present that she would have been rolling her eyes had they been open. "It's no wonder we're paying you $400 an hour."

Brenda was nonplussed. "How would _you_ describe the way you feel?"

"Rejected," she immediately replied.

Chuck opened his mouth to speak, but the therapist made a motion with her hand to still him. "Why rejected?" she asked in a softer voice.

Blair's face twinged with embarrassment and exasperation. "Because he's choosing them over me."

"'Them?'"

Blair's eyes snapped open. "The women!" she cried, gesturing wildly with one hand. "The…porn stars. With their bleached buttholes and fake breasts and fake…everything! He would rather…you know. With _them_. And you're asking me why I'm _upset_?"

"I'm not having sex with them, Blair," Chuck reminded her with some impatience.

"You might as well be," she muttered darkly.

He shot her a skeptical look. "Unless your capacity for jealousy has extended to my right hand, I beg to differ."

"Do you really have to be so crass about this?" she demanded.

"What am I supposed to be? Apologetic? Fine. I apologize for looking at porn, like every other man on the planet. And some of its women, too, including you, before you started getting all finicky about it."

"You sound angry, Chuck," Brenda commented.

"I _am_ angry."

Blair balked, then made a disbelieving sound. "What do _you_ have to be angry about?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, was it your turn?" Chuck returned bitterly. "So you feel rejected. So what. You now have the tiniest fraction of the vaguest _inkling_ of how _I _felt when you fucked someone else. Congratulations."

This was the first time in twelve sessions that Chuck had said anything about the actual reason they were in therapy. Brenda was so surprised that she looked up while she was writing her notes, fumbled her pen in her hand and dropped it on the floor. The clattering noise echoed in the silent room.

Stung by his words, Blair recoiled from him. She opened her mouth as if to retort, but then shut it again. Then she took a deep breath, looking down at her lap, and twisted her hands together.

"I guess that means you get a get-out-of-jail-free card for anything you could do to hurt me, then," she said quietly. "Is that how it works?"

Chuck rubbed his eyes. Breathed in and out. "No," he finally admitted in a tired voice. "That's not how it works."

There was another period of silence.

"I want you to know something," Chuck eventually said. "I'm not looking at porn to get back at you, or spite you, or make you feel rejected. It's just…something I do to help me sleep. It doesn't mean _anything_ to me."

"Well, it means something to _me_," Blair said, fighting to keep her voice steady. "It would be different if we were…you know. But right now, you'd rather look at them than be with me. And that…really hurts."

"It's not that I'd _rather_." Chuck was closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead again. "It's just that…it's easier."

"And being with me is…_difficult_?" Blair's lips fumbled on the word.

There was a long pause while she waited for him to answer.

"Being with you is really fucking stressful sometimes," Chuck finally admitted.

Blair widened her eyes and opened her mouth. She was planning on saying something sarcastic, something to the effect of, "Oh, because being with you is like, one long picnic on a beautiful spring day with champagne and strawberries?"

On the other hand, Chuck was being more forthcoming with her than he'd been in weeks. And all of Brenda's admonitions about "active listening" must be paying off, because Blair discovered that she was able to stop herself from bristling and lashing back, and wait for him to finish what he was saying, no matter how hurtful it was.

"With you, it's always been stressful," he explained. "Because you're insanely smart, and beautiful, and…_devious_, and manipulative, and I love you like I will never love anyone else. And sometimes I thrive on it, because being with you is such a challenge. It's exciting; it turns me on. But sometimes I just can't deal with how intense it can get. There's just too much pressure."

"Pressure to what?" Brenda's voice cut across the room.

Chuck thought it over for a second. "To be the man she wants me to be," he said, realizing it as he spoke it out loud.

"I just want you to be you!" Blair protested. "I love you just the way you are. You know that, right?"

She reached over and took his hand tightly in hers. He allowed her to do it, but he didn't clasp her hand in return.

"On some level, I do," he responded reluctantly. "But whenever things go wrong between us, it's like I regress into the guy I was before we got together. A fuck-up. A self-destructive, self-loathing kid with too much time and money on his hands."

Blair was shaking her head before he'd even finished. "That's not who you are," she whispered in disbelief. "That's not even who you _were_. "

"I know that you think—" He cut himself off, blinking, and then tried a different line. "Look. I know you want to have sex. I know you think it'll make everything right between us again. But I can't have it be like last time. I just can't…disappoint you again. Because it makes me feel so fucking awful. And I hate feeling that way. It's _dangerous_ for me to feel that way. Even now, sometimes it's all I can do, _not _to drink myself to sleep, _not_ to call my dealer and get a new supply and blow through it in three days. Sometimes I just have to watch out for myself. I know it's not fair to you, I know. But I can't help it, at least not right now."

Blair sat in silence for a moment. "Okay," she said quietly. "I accept that."

Chuck let out a deep breath that he'd been holding for some time. He knew that he'd effectively been asking Blair to set aside her own pain in order to let him manage his own, and he hadn't expected a positive response, much less the mature and thoughtful one she'd given. But he found himself unable to say any of this out loud. So he turned her hand over in his hand, and gratefully kissed her palm instead.

"Chuck?"

He looked up at the therapist, caught off-guard by her voice. He'd half-forgotten that she was there. His eyes were soft, and his hair was tumbling over his brow, and he looked his age, not like the brusque middle-aged businessman he usually seemed to be.

Brenda realized with a start that he was younger than her own son, who was a senior at Duke and whom she still thought of as a boy.

"Do you want to talk about…whatever happened last time?" she said, leaning over to one side of her armchair and propping her chin up on her hand.

Chuck cleared his throat, released Blair's hand and leaned back against the sofa.

"You don't have to if you don't want to," she reminded him. "We're almost out of time anyways, and you've done a lot of great work today."

"I guess I can talk about it," he said with only a hint of reluctance. "It was…three weeks ago." The slightest of smiles quirked his lips. "We'd just managed another takedown for the record books."

_Serena had been working as an intern at the Metropolitan opera when someone had stolen her cell phone and blackmailed her with certain…indiscreet self-portraits she had taken while Dan was out of town._

"_You'd really think Serena would know better by now," Blair had griped to Chuck. "Still, we have to help her."_

"_It's kind of our job," Chuck had agreed, tilting a scotch to his lips._

_Their investigation revealed that the culprit was a _Carmen _supernumerary, so they snuck backstage and pretended to be part of the production. Then they ambushed her in the dressing room and forced her to relinquish the evidence before they let her go onstage._

"_And did you see the impresario's face when he found out who we really were?" Blair was chattering excitedly as they strolled into the Empire penthouse._

"_I thought his head was going to explode," Chuck said with great satisfaction, as he walked over to the fridge and took out a bottle of champagne. He unpopped the cork and pouring the frothing liquid into two glasses._

"_Here's to us," he said, handing her a glass._

"_Us, a million and one," Blair agreed with a smirk, and took a sip of the champagne. "The world, zero."_

"_You were spectacular, you know that?" he told her admiringly. "I had no idea you could hit a high C."_

"_Well, maybe there are still a few things about me that you don't know," she said slyly in response, her voice taking on a sultry note, one that sounded surprisingly out of place given the currently chaste state of their relationship._

_Chuck's eyebrows went up. "Oh really?" he said, flirtation coloring his tone._

_Suddenly Blair's eyes were afire, and she was leaning forward, and her mouth was opening his mouth, and she was kissing him with a passion that left him nearly breathless._

_She pulled away with a gasp, as though she'd surprised herself. Her hands rested lightly against his collarbones._

"_I'm sorry. I know that I'm being…" she exhaled instead of providing whatever word she was thinking of—_forward? aggressive?_—and shook her head. Her eyes were raking down his body. "But…."_

_She expelled another breath. "You have _no idea _how good you look in that toreador costume."_

_He barely had enough time to set his champagne glass down before he was enveloped by her body again. Whirls of her skirt tumbled over his legs as her hands tilted his face downwards, towards her mouth, as she craned her head up for another searing kiss. It was all he could do to keep up with the frenzied motions of her tongue and mouth, her neck rocking her head back and forth, side to side, anything to deepen the contact of their mouths._

_She paused to gasp for breath, her head falling back, exposing her pale throat, and he cradled one side of her neck in his hand and kissed down the other._

She smelled like lilacs_, he realized with a pang of lust. _Intoxicating. _He was already beginning to lose himself in her scent, in the satin-smoothness of her skin against his lips and tongue._

"_God. It's been _forever_," Blair groaned in appreciation, cradling the back of his head with her hand._

_Forever. _Forever? _How long had it been? Since before her exams. Before the DrexelCorp gala. Before…_

_And then, unasked for, unbidden, all of the events of the past six weeks tore through his mind at a frantic pace. How she had confessed to him that she'd had sex with Mack, how he had thrown down his chair and screamed at her and wept, and how she had stood there and watched as his heart broke in two._

_Then he was back in the here and now, and Blair was wrenching open his shirt, kissing down his chest. Her palms were sliding down to his upper thighs, circling, closer and closer to his groin. But his body, which had been so receptive just moments earlier, suddenly felt her every movement, every touch, to be an alien thing._

_He tried to fight off his growing edginess. His eyes clenched shut with effort, but the vibration in his veins could not be ignored._

"_Blair," he finally said, in a soft yet firm voice. "Stop."_

_Blair stopped. She looked up at him, her hands frozen in space an inch away from his body, her eyes big and confused._

"_I thought…" she began._

"_I can't," he admitted, hiding and hid his eyes behind his hand. "I just…" He trailed off. There was nothing else he could say, no other explanation he could give._

_Blair lowered her gaze, her eyes fixed into hard circles. Tears brimmed in them until they broke apart into rivulets._

"_I'm sorry," Chuck offered lamely, trying to reach out to take her hands in his, but she pulled them away._

"_If it's not too much trouble," she forced herself to say in a steady voice, though she was obviously on the verge of breaking down into tears of disappointment and anger, "it would be really nice to know when you're going to want me again."_

"_I…don't know." He slid a few inches away from her. "It's not the kind of thing you can know in advance."_

"_Well, when you figure it out, tell me, okay?" Her voice was thick now. She swallowed to clear her throat. "Because I don't think I can't handle any more rejection."_

"_I don't want you to feel that way, Blair," he protested. "I'm _glad _that you're trying."_

_He paused, cleared his throat. "But I'm trying, too. And I need you to know that. And to not give up on me…"_

_His hand reached out tentatively to cradle her face. She allowed its weight to sink into his palm. Then her eyes snapped back up to his face._

_"I'll never give up on you," she whispered fiercely._

Of course, Chuck's version of events wasn't nearly so detailed.

"We started to kiss, and things got hot and heavy pretty quickly. And I suddenly remembered everything that had happened, and then I…I just couldn't do it."

"Well, I think there might be several sources of your anxiety," Brenda told Chuck. "And you've already identified one of them today. You don't want to start anything you're not able to finish, because you don't want to disappoint Blair."

Almost before she'd finished the sentence, Blair was interrupting her. "But since then I've told him like a hundred times that it was okay if we…you know." She made a "you know" face. "Did…other things."

"It's not okay and you know it," Chuck said dryly. "You've always been an all-or-nothing kind of girl."

Blair did not contest this.

"Blair, you've agreed to let Chuck take all the time he needs," Brenda reminded her. "Because—"

"I know, I know," Blair replied, rolling her eyes, and continued in a surprisingly accurate imitation of Brenda: "'_Every time you two had a disagreement, you didn't talk about it. You just had sex. Now you're _not _having sex, so you can't just gloss over your issues any longer. You have to actually deal with them_.'"

"And that's what you're doing, right?" Brenda asked with an indulgent little smile, seemingly amused by Blair's performance. "You're dealing."

"But we're not getting anywhere," Chuck said, discouraged. "And we won't anytime soon. Not if I keep having this…reaction."

"What does it feel like?" Brenda wanted to know.

He was quiet for a moment. "I feel...exposed. I feel... it's like..." He trailed off.

"What?"

Chuck hesitated, even thought the inside of his skull was ringing with the answer.

_It's like I'm about to have sex for the very first time. And I'm not ready._

"I don't think I want to talk about it anymore today," he finally said.

"Okay," Brenda answered. "That's fine."

She reached for her appointment book. "So…" (she flipped through the pages) "…is four thirty on Friday still good for both of you?"

**—**

"Mallory, will you phone the Plaza and tell them I'm running a little late?" Chuck said into his cell phone. "And send the clients a round of drinks on me." He paused. "Yeah, Obama's in town today and traffic's blocked off for miles. Columbus Circle's a madhouse." He paused again. "Thanks."

He clicked "end call" and continued down the winding path across Central Park.

Chuck was usually irritated by any last-minute changes to his schedule, but he was in a good mood today. His latest investment was turning a greater profit than he'd expected, and the Empire had just topped a list of the "günstigstene Luxushotels" in a national German publication. Whatever that meant, it must be a good thing, because umlauted names were starting to fill their reservation lists.

And, to his surprise and relief, Blair hadn't called or texted him all day. This was something she'd been previously unable to do, even though he'd told her that he needed a day or two to recuperate after their therapy sessions. She was plainly making an effort to set aside her desire for reassurance in order to give him the space that he needed.

He continued to think about Blair as he walked briskly along the dirt path, watching teenagers playing Frisbee, couples having picnics, and children running around, happily screaming at each other. Sun streamed through the trees overhead, their leaves ruffling with a slight breeze. It was a beautiful day.

He knew that she would do anything to repair their relationship, and he wished that he could do the same in turn. That he could feel completely at ease with her again. That he could trust her.

He _wanted_ to trust her, he thought with a grimace, kicking a rock out of his path.

But something was broken, somewhere deep inside of him, somewhere even deeper than his feelings for Blair. He didn't know what it was. In this regard, he was a mystery to himself.

But he knew enough to know that she had been right about therapy. He'd _needed _it—not just as half of Chuck and Blair, but as Chuck Bass, period.

Lost in these thoughts, he clipped the shoulder of a man who was standing by the side of path, and he turned around to say "sorry."

He froze.

The other man was standing there, staring at him, stunned.

The other man was Jason Mackendry.

Chuck's vision went white-hot as lividity electrified his body. His fists felt suddenly capable of swinging, of smashing into the face of the man standing in front of him, of causing him grievous harm.

"Well, ah. This is awkward," Mack stammered.

"It's about to get a lot more awkward," Chuck said in a tone that even he himself found frightening, and took a step forward.

Mack took a step backwards. "Look—" he began in an assuaging tone, raising his hands in defense. "Anything you have to say to me—I totally deserve. It's just…now's not really the right time."

This only magnified Chuck's fury. "Why, are you on a _date_ or something?" he spat.

"Uh, not exactly," he answered, looking over his shoulder.

He couldn't _believe_ this guy. "Oh, am I interrupting your busy schedule?" he demanded. "Should you be off somewhere, ejaculating on someone else's girlfriend?"

Mack's face flushed red. "_Please_," he said in a strained whisper.

Chuck had no intention of complying with this request, but he forced himself to hold his tongue for a moment. A little girl in a pink dress had just run up the path and stopped to linger at Mack's side.

Through a nest of dark curls, held back by a matching pink headband, she stared up at Chuck curiously. Then she reached up to take Mack by the hand.

Chuck's mouth fell open. "You have a _kid_?" he said, incredulous.

"No, this is my goddaughter, Teddy," Mack explained, looking less than comfortable to be sharing these personal details with Chuck Bass. "Her parents wanted to spend some time together, so I'm taking care of her for the day."

"They said they wanted me out of their ears," the little girl confided to Chuck.

"Out of their _hair_, not out of their ears," Mack corrected her with an involuntary chuckle, and Teddy beamed, displaying two perfectly round dimples in the centers of her cheeks.

Chuck felt his temper receding back into him, along with his desire to pursue this vendetta any further at the moment. As much as he'd like to punch Mack in the fucking face right now, there was no way he was doing it with a little girl standing there staring at him.

"A boy pushed me!" Teddy announced to Chuck, whom she plainly considered a new potential friend. "And then I pushed him and he went…."

She made a _splat_ noise by blowing through her lips.

"Into the mud?" Chuck guessed, raising his eyebrows.

Teddy giggled.

"Yes, and that's why we're leaving the park, right, Teds?" Mack said, patting her on the head. "Because the boy's mommy had some things to say to us, and they weren't very nice things."

"And you said she was a bad word," Teddy said with obvious glee.

"No, I didn't. What are you talking about?"

"It starts with a _beeeee_," Teddy sang. "And it's _bad_."

Mack's expression changed. "Yeah, well, we're not going to tell Mommy and Daddy about that, okay?"

"Not if we get ice cream."

"They said no ice cream."

"ICE CREAM!" Teddy roared, and began to stomp around Mack, gnashing her teeth and growling, and pretending to bite his leg.

Chuck watched her in astonishment. Were children really this…random?

"She's on this dinosaur kick," Mack explained, looking embarrassed, as he kept his leg out of Teddy's biting range. "I can't tell what she's supposed to be, but it must be some carnivorous…thing."

Teddy abruptly stopped stomping and made a face. "Something's pinching in my shoe," she said in a disgruntled tone, wiggling her foot.

"Come here," Mack said. He picked her up and cradled her against his hip, and removed her Mary Jane and turned it upside down. A pebble fell out of it onto the ground.

Something about the naturalness of this gesture moved Chuck in a way that he didn't quite understand.

Meanwhile, Teddy stared at him. In spite of himself, he was disarmed by the steady gaze of her round brown eyes.

"I like your headband," he offered, after searching a brief moment for something to say.

"I like your flower," she said, her eyes focused on Chuck's lapel. Her little hand reached out towards the white bud.

"Whoa, whoa—Teddy," Mack said with a laugh, shifting her to his other hip. "You can't just go around grabbing things that belong to other people."

Chuck let out an ironic laugh. "What sage advice," he said, looking at Mack pointedly.

Mack flushed red again, and set Teddy back down on the ground. As soon as he did, she tugged at his pants above his knee.

"Ice cream," she reminded him.

"Fine, ice cream," he grumbled. "Little blackmailer."

Teddy looked up at Chuck, and, seized by a sudden impulse, he plucked the flower from his lapel and gave it to her.

She took it eagerly and began to examine its petals with her fingertips.

"What do you say to the nice man, Teddy?" Mack prompted her. In his tone there was a hint of begrudging appreciation, obviously directed towards Chuck. Chuck didn't miss it.

"Thank you," Teddy cooed, her eyes still locked on the flower.

Chuck looked at her. "Well, Teddy. It was nice meeting you."

"Say bye-bye, Teddy," Mack prompted her again.

"Bye," Teddy said, rubbing her nose with her grubby hand. Then she ran ahead down the path to look at something disgusting that was lying on the ground.

Mack hesitated, then turned back to look at Chuck.

"Look," he said, clearing his throat. "Um…I'm sorry. The only thing I can say in my defense…you and Blair…" He made a helpless gesture. "I didn't think it was the real thing."

Chuck's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Under normal circumstances he would be affronted, but he wasn't right now, not at all.

He felt secure.

"It _is_ the real thing," he said in a voice of quiet conviction.

Mack's expression betrayed several conflicting emotions. Humility. Envy. A tiny touch of resentment. But more than anything else, resignation.

"Yeah," he said. "I get that now."

Then he raised his hand in a final salute, and walked down the path to catch up with his goddaughter.

**—**

"So," Brenda said airily, as she crossed one leg over the other.

Their therapy sessions typically began in this fashion. They would come in, sit down on the sofa, and make small talk—well, Brenda and Blair would make small talk, and Chuck would eat one of the mint Lifesavers that Brenda kept in a china bowl on the table by the sofa, so as to avoid making small talk—and eventually there would come an inevitable pause in the conversation, and Brenda would wait for one of them to speak.

Then Blair would launch into a monologue. "This week's been kind of difficult," she would say, or "So I had this dream"—a dream that her penthouse was flooding when her mother was due for a visit, or that she gave birth to a baby that turned out to be a kitten, or something of that nature.

Blair's dreams always had one major theme: loss of control. Brenda had pointed this out during their second therapy session, citing the email dissertation that Blair had "helpfully provided" on her relationship with Chuck as further evidence of potential control issues.

Today, however, was not a typical day. The requisite pause had barely begun before Chuck spoke up.

"I want to talk about Mack," he stated.

Blair's head swiveled forty-five degrees to face him. The gesture would have been comical if he hadn't felt so nervous.

Brenda raised her eyebrows. "And Mack is…?"

"The other man," Chuck supplied with a touch of dark humor.

No wonder she was confused. They'd been in therapy for over six weeks now without once mentioning his name.

"Oh," the therapist said. "Well, that sounds like a potentially productive topic. Why don't you start, Chuck?"

Blair was looking intensely uncomfortable. "Um, are you sure?" she asked Brenda. "I feel like…we might need to…work up to…talking about that."

"You seem a little upset, Blair," Brenda remarked.

"I am _not_—" Blair cut herself off, took a deep breath, and paused for a moment to assess her own emotional state. "Okay, I _am_ feeling a little upset," she admitted. "And embarrassed. And defensive. I'm just…"

She looked at Chuck, her eyes fearful. "I'm not sure this is the right time."

"It's time," Chuck reassured her, setting his hand on her knee.

"But why now?" she wanted to know, only slightly mollified by this gesture.

"I saw him yesterday. When I was crossing the park."

Blair drew back from him in alarm. "Is he…still alive?"

Chuck laughed. "He's fine, Blair."

"Hey, it's a fair question," she pointed out. "The last time you saw him, you threatened to have him killed. And that was before…"

She trailed off, still reluctant to reference the incident directly.

"What did it feel like, to see him this time?" Brenda asked Chuck.

"At first, I was angry," Chuck admitted. "Actually, angry's not a strong enough word. I felt like I wanted to kill him. But there was this little girl with him—his goddaughter, he said; she couldn't have been more than four. And I thought about how scared she would be, and…" He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "There just didn't seem to be any point to it."

"Any point to what?"

He shrugged. "Being angry. Because…" It was obvious from the rhythm of Chuck's speech that he was thinking this through as he spoke. "Because as long as you're angry at someone, they're part of your life. And—" His eyes narrowed slightly in thought. "I don't want him to be a part of my life anymore. I don't wish him well; I don't wish him ill. I just...don't want to think about him at all."

Brenda looked impressed. "It seems like there was something cathartic, then, about seeing him."

Chuck took a moment to contemplate this.

"No," he said finally. "It wasn't seeing him. It was how I _reacted_ to seeing him."

"And how was that?"

"Like a man. And it wasn't because Blair was there. It wasn't because I was _pretending_ to be a man." He shrugged. "I felt like I could handle myself."

"And what do you think it means, to handle yourself?"

"I've been thinking about that a lot lately," Chuck said pensively. "Knowing when to let things go, that's one part of it. And being someone people can rely on, that's another. And…" He paused for a moment. "Owning up to mistakes," he finished. "That's important too."

He turned in his seat to face Blair. "I have something I want to say to you," he murmured, clasping her hand between both of his.

Blair swallowed back her nervousness. "Okay."

Chuck paused for a long moment—so long, Blair wasn't sure if he were ever going to speak. "Blair, I'm so sorry for everything I've put you through in the past. For all the times I shut down, all the times I pushed you away…" He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling and exhaling a deep breath. "Sometimes I just couldn't handle the way I felt about you, and so I pretended not to care, and ended up sabotaging our relationship. And sometimes I was so terrified that you'd leave me that I was willing to try anything, any desperate scheme, just to keep you with me. Because without you, my entire life just crumbled to pieces. And when—" He let go of her hand. He was having trouble continuing. "When you left me—"

"I didn't leave you!" Blair insisted.

Chuck acknowledged this with a sharp nod. "I _thought_ you were going to leave me," he corrected. "I thought you were going to leave me for Mack. And I thought…" He let out a deep breath. "'_This is the last time. She's finally figured it out._'"

"Figured what out?" she asked, her brow furrowing with concern.

"What I'd known all along." Chuck's voice was thick. "That you were too good for me."

"That's not true!" Blair cried. "And that's not why this happened."

"It's what I thought," he said quietly, turning his gaze to the floor.

There was a pause.

"Why do you think you were unfaithful, Blair?" Brenda gently prodded her.

Several moments passed before Blair answered.

"At first I didn't know," she said, wiping away a tear of shame. "Then I thought it was because I was alone with him, and I was upset, and he was being so nice. I know that sounds stupid, but… I do stupid things when I'm upset sometimes. And then…" She blew out a sigh between her lips. "I thought, for like five minutes, that it was because I was acting out. That some unconscious part of me… didn't want to be with Chuck anymore. But that wasn't true," she added hurriedly. "I _was_ acting out. But that wasn't the reason."

"What was the reason, Blair?"

She turned to face Chuck. "My feelings for you scare me sometimes," she told him in a high, strained voice. "I don't think I've ever told you how much. I would do anything for you, Chuck. So many times I've caught myself setting aside my own plans, my own ambitions, my own _needs_, because you needed my help. And that _scares_ me.

"I think…I think when I did what I did, I did it because….I wanted to prove that I could do something that wasn't for you, something you hadn't given me permission to do. Something that proved I wasn't…"

She floundered for her next phrase. Failed.

"Under his control?" Brenda guessed.

Blair swallowed and looked at the floor. "Yes."

Chuck blinked with apparent astonishment. "I don't want to _control_ you, Blair," he emphatically declared. "I've _never_ wanted to control you. From the time we were in middle school, you were the one girl who could play me just as hard as I played you. That's one of the reasons why I fell for you for in the first place."

"I know that, _rationally_," Blair protested. "I mean, we toyed with each other for years. It's like, the sick twisted love story of _us_. But things are different now."

"Why?"

"Because…" She struggled to find an explanation. "You're not just a guy that I'm playing some epic cat-and-mouse game with. You're… the most important person in my life."

"I still don't understand," he admitted.

There was a pause.

"Who used to be the most important person in your life, Blair?" Brenda softly interceded.

Blair looked startled. "Well," she said, blinking. "I would say my father, but he wasn't around very much, even before he left. So…my mother, I guess."

"She's quite controlling, isn't she?" Brenda asked.

Blair burst into laughter. "Wow. Um, yes, she is 'quite controlling.' If you were making the understatement of the century."

"I wonder," Brenda continued, "if you might have transferred some of your fears about your relationship with your mother to your relationship with Chuck?"

Blair's forehead crinkled. "What do you mean?"

"Well, for years, she told you what to do, what to wear, what to _eat_," the therapist explained. "It's hard for me not to think that you developed a new identity for yourself in direct response to this. You turned into _Queen B_—you were completely in charge, not only of your own body, not only of yourself, but of everyone else, too. You fought _so hard_ to be independent, Blair. You _idealized_ independence. So, on some level, it must have been very troubling to you to find yourself so emotionally dependent on Chuck."

"I never thought about it that way," she admitted after a long pause.

"It really sounds like the events of the past few weeks played into both of your deepest insecurities," Brenda remarked with evident compassion. "Chuck, your mother abandoned you. Your father was largely an absent figure in your life until he died, suddenly. So you _expect_ the people you love to leave you. And when you were afraid of losing Blair, you tightened your grip…at the precise moment that she needed to assert her independence "

This all rang so true that they couldn't believe they hadn't figured it out for themselves.

"Instead of talking to each other and being honest about your feelings," Brenda continued, "you both reacted according to the emotional scripts you'd learned from your families. And you ended up hurting each other really badly as a result."

"It all goes back to Mommy and Daddy, doesn't it?" Chuck remarked bitterly.

Brenda smiled. "Not all of it. Only about…ninety-five percent."

Chuck leaned back against the sofa, looking overwhelmed.

"I don't want to be like this just because neither of my parents knew how to be a parent," he declared, making a frustrated gesture with one hand.

He turned and looked sideways at Blair. "I want to be good to you," he said softly, taking her hand.

"Me too," Blair agreed, taking his hand in turn.

"You don't have to keep acting out the same scripts forever," Brenda reassured them. "They're not going to disappear overnight; you'll probably find that they'll influence you for years to come. But you can learn to rewrite the ways you respond to adversity. It just takes time."

They stared at her for a beat, taking this in.

"How do we start?" Chuck asked, sounding less than self-assured.

Brenda smiled at them. "Well, by recommitting to one other," she suggested. "You might want to…acknowledge each other's fears, and promise that you'll help each other to overcome them."

There was another beat, during which their therapist simply looked at them and waited.

Inhaling a deep breath, Blair turned towards Chuck.

"I know you're scared I'm going to leave you," she said, taking his hand. "But I'm not going anywhere. I'll always be there for you, Chuck. When I said I was your family, I meant it."

Chuck looked at the ground. "Thank you," he whispered, squeezing her hand in turn.

Clearing his throat, he looked up at her.

"I know that…letting me play such an important role in your life scares you sometimes. But I'm always going to let you be exactly who you are. Because I don't think you need any…improvement."

He looked into her eyes. "I love every part of you," he whispered.

For several seconds, they gazed deeply into each other's eyes, almost overwhelmed by their sense of attachment to each other.

"All right!" Brenda said with evident good cheer, abruptly breaking the spell between them. "Nice work today, you two."

She reached out for her notebook and flipped ahead to the next calendar week. "So," she casually said, "are we on for our usual time next Wednesday?"


	17. All I Ever Knew of Love

It was nearly midnight by the time they arrived at the penthouse. They'd decided to hold a celebratory dinner after their breakthrough therapy session, and, Chuck Bass being Chuck Bass, they'd walked into Per Se and had been escorted straight to its most intimate table for two.

Three hours and several gourmet courses later, Blair stumbled out of her elevator into the black-and-white tiled foyer, clutching Chuck's arm for support.

"I think I may be a little… tipsy," she said with a laugh, as she righted herself on her wobbly heels.

"You think?" Chuck said, a playful lilt in his voice.

"Hey, I didn't get there by myself," she saucily replied. "If memory serves, you're the one that ordered the second bottle of Rioja."

"Well, it seemed like a special occasion," he said, turning around in the spot by the stairs where he usually bid her goodbye.

A spark of light appeared in Blair's eyes. "How so?" she asked, trying to keep the suggestion out of her voice.

He looked at her for a few seconds, his eyes filled with some indecipherable emotion.

"For the first time since spring, I really think we're going to be okay," he finally murmured, tucking a long strand of her hair behind her ear. "Maybe even better than okay."

She smiled. "Me too," she said in a low, warm voice, and set her hands on Chuck's shoulders as he leaned down to kiss her.

His lips gently touched down upon hers, then lingered, half-open, to re-open and caress her lips again.

Despite the fact that her entire body was immediately awash in a sea of euphoric hormones, Blair forced herself to temper her response. Over the past six weeks, sex had taken on an almost mythical value in her mind. She was convinced that it was only after they'd slept together that she would know that Chuck had forgiven her.

That he finally trusted her again.

That he was committed, body and soul, to building a future with her.

And so whenever Chuck walked her into her lobby after dinner, and pecked her on the lips by the elevator, and told her good night, she was dying for that night to be the night. The night that he slid his hand up her back and pulled her into a desperately passionate kiss. Carried her up the stairs. Did things to her until she couldn't remember her own name.

Having been disappointed one too many times before, she'd spent the entire evening managing her expectations. She'd told herself sternly that she wasn't going to expect Chuck to behave any differently than usual just because they'd done some extra sharing-and-caring during therapy today. She wasn't going to bring up the sex issue, and she _certainly_ wasn't going to melt into his arms just because their good night kiss was quickly turning into…a good night make-out session.

_At least, not right away,_ she thought as she continued to forestall his kisses, her resolve weakening by the second.

Making a soft noise in the back of his throat, he raised his hands to her face and deepened the kiss, his tongue darting lightly against hers, teasingly, daring her to respond to him with greater passion. Resisting the urge to do exactly that—along with her other instinctual response, which was to slide her hands down his back to grab his ass—Blair played it safe with soft, almost polite replies to his roving lips and tongue.

Chuck slowed and then abruptly stilled his motions. He pulled away from her with a quizzical look.

"What?" she innocently said.

Had she played it _too_ safe?

Chuck cleared his throat. "We're…we're forgetting ourselves," he mumbled, not looking her in the eyes. "We shouldn't rush things. We still have a long way to go."

"Right," Blair chirped after a short pause, fighting off a sudden urge to scream. "Of course."

God, if only she could just grab him by the collar and pull him back towards her! But it was too late now. If he asked her to stop again, she would be devastated, and he would feel terrible, and half the work they'd done in therapy would be undone.

Reaching down to button his jacket—and realizing it was already buttoned—Chuck retreated into the elevator. "Good night, Blair. I'll…call you tomorrow."

He managed to avoid making eye contact until the elevator doors closed.

Blair set her hands against her face and let out a wretched sigh. Then, with her head hanging low, she plodded up the stairs and down the hall to her bedroom.

She was turning on her bedside lamp when a sudden inspiration seized her. _Maybe Serena's home_, she thought, walking into the bathroom and opening the door opposite.

But Serena's room was dark. She was out. Probably spending the night in DUMBO with Dumbo again.

_God, life was so much better before Serena and Dan got back together,_she internally groused as she closed the door. Now instead of two friends who were ready and willing at a moment's notice to get half-drunk and listen to her vent, she had exactly none—at least when Dorota was off duty.

_I should just go to sleep_, she thought, eyeing her reflection in the mirror and noting with some irony that she looked unusually lovely tonight. She'd applied body oil earlier that day, and her skin was still soft and gleaming in the low light. There was a flush in her cheeks, a glint in her smoky eyes.

She eyed the brocade bodice of her dress, her finger trailing a slow, languorous line across her collarbone to the exposed skin between her breasts. One of its thin straps tumbled down over her shoulder.

The sensation set off synapses in her brain, sparking a long-cherished memory.

Her eyes closed; her head dipped back between her shoulder blades. She pushed the other strap off of her shoulders and let the fabric slide down her body to the floor. She tugged her panties down over her hips and kicked them away with her feet.

Naked, she walked over to her bed, slung the covers back, and crawled across the mattress. Laid down, closed her eyes. Slid her hand down between her legs.

She was in the limo. Chuck was touching her.

_He'd just pulled her panties down her legs and over her feet; he'd run his hand up to the cleft between her legs. She was already so wet she was _slick_—and she knew it, she'd known it as soon as she'd turned around on the stage at Victrola, and she would have been ashamed of herself, if it hadn't been for the look in his eyes when his fingers parted her folds. She had never seen a man look at her the way he was looking at her now—his eyes were dazed, overwhelmed, awestruck._

_He stroked her clit until she was half-trembling, needy in her arousal, and she righted herself with a jerk and reached forward to push his shirt off his shoulders, yank it down over his arms. The silk made soft noises as it crumpled and slid off his body._

_She fumbled at his belt, her fingers suddenly clumsy. He helped her to do it, raising his hips off of the seat and pulling off his pants._

"_Come here," he whispered in a reverent tone, pulling her gently by the hands towards him._

_She rose up onto her knees and swung her leg over his thighs to straddle his body._

_He kissed her—a wild, open-mouthed kiss—and then broke away with a ragged sigh. After pushing her hips back to a safe distance, he rolled a condom down over his jutting cock. Then he pulled her towards him, looking up at her questioningly._

_She took him in her hand; she ran his head experimentally down her vulva. She let out a startled sound when her clit throbbed with answering pleasure._

"_Ready?" he asked eagerly—then, realizing how he sounded, adopted a more relaxed tone. "I mean, you can take your time if you want."_

_Without hesitation – she'd been sure as soon as he'd asked her if she were sure—she set him at her entrance. She heard the catch in his breath when she lowered her hips, taking him inside of her. The catch in her own breath, one sharp inward gasp._

That's it_, she realized with a shock. _I'm not a virgin anymore.

"_Okay?" he asked her, reaching up to brush her hair away from her face._

_She looked down at him. His eyes were like stars._

"_Yeah," she whispered. It wasn't painful. She'd always thought it would be. But it wasn't an uncomfortable sensation. Just…new._

_She raised her hips and let herself sink down on his cock again, and he let out a soft groan of appreciation. Encouraged, she repeated the motion, letting his hands at her waist guide her up and down. Together they melded into a rhythm that grew steadily more and more pleasurable._

_Then he was lowering his head to suck on her breasts, pinching her nipples between his teeth, and she was clenching the hair on the back of his head and moaning. And then she was no longer thinking in words. Her entire body was humming, buzzing, urging her to get closer to Chuck. She would have taken him completely inside of her if she could have._

_The place where her flesh was receiving his flesh felt like the center of the universe._

_She lowered her head to recapture his mouth, the loose curls of her hair curtaining both of their faces as they kissed. She could feel his cock surge inside of her; she could feel her warm walls tighten around him._

_She grabbed the top of the seat over his shoulders and quickened her pace, and then he was gasping, grimacing. Fighting to calm himself. She was panting, trembling. Tightening yet tighter around him._

_Her skin was slick with perspiration. The leather seat was squeaking under her bare knees._

_The air was filled with the scent of their sex. It smelled dirty and honest and pure._

"_That's it," he exhaled against her neck. His fingers curled behind her spine, dug into the flesh of her back. "_Yeah_."_

"That's it," Blair whimpered. She was stomach-down on her bed, her right arm pinned underneath her body, her forefingers encircling her clit. "Unnhh."

She was remembering Chuck's face, half-obscured in shadow, illumed by the flash of city lights outside the moving limo. The way he'd breathed against her neck and murmured dirty praises into her ear ("God, Waldorf, you're a fucking _natural_"). How he had thrust upwards to meet her thrusts, and how her body had suddenly buckled and broken their rhythm, her dizzy head lolling backwards, overwhelmed by her exertion.

How he had spun her down onto the seat, flat onto her back, and she had twisted her arms around him as he'd crashed into her again and again.

How she had made soft purring sounds into his ear, helpless in her ecstasy.

God. She was _almost_, almost there. She breathed his name out loud, repeating it like a mantra: "_Chuck Chuck Chuck Chuck Chuck_."

"Blair?"

Blair shrieked and whirled around like a wildcat. Chuck was standing in her doorway, silhouetted by the light from the hallway.

"Jesus!" she yelled, as she pulled up the sheet and loosely wrapped it around her lower body. She sat down on her knees. "How long have you been standing there?"

Chuck opened his mouth, but didn't say anything.

"I thought you went home," she scolded him, having unwittingly turned her body to its most fetching angle—her head turned over her shoulder, displaying her curved back and the nape of her neck.

"I came back," he said, seeming oblivious to how obvious he sounded.

"Why?" There was a hopeful note in her voice. She tried to keep it out, but there it was, spiting her in spite of her efforts against it.

Chuck closed the door, and Blair's heart began beating wildly.

"Why?" she repeated warily, as he walked towards the foot of the bed.

Chuck didn't answer. He just unbuttoned his jacket, top to bottom, and shrugged it off his shoulders.

It fell to the floor with a soft _whoosh_.

They stared at each other for a standstill moment. Then Blair's eyes danced with a wild fire, and she let go of the sheet and began to rise from the bed.

"No," Chuck said in a voice like velvet. "Stay."

His hands glided down from his throat to his waist, unfastening the line of buttons on his white oxford shirt.

Still looking at her, he shrugged one arm out of its sleeve, and then the other, letting it drop to the floor. He pulled his undershirt over his head, tousling his hair, and flung it away. He kicked off his shoes, peeled off his socks, and with a swift motion of his wrist, unclasped his belt.

By this point Blair was so excited that she was trembling.

"Please," she said in a tone that she knew drove Chuck crazy.

He exhaled—an effortful breath, one that betrayed the strain of resisting her, even for another second. "Stay," he repeated. "Just like that."

He let his pants fall to the floor, and stepped out of them. The fabric of his boxers was taut with his erection. He pulled them down over it and it immediately sprang back upwards, swollen, pointing to his navel.

Only then did he finally walk knee-by-knee across the mattress towards her.

His hand slid up her back and cradled the nape of her neck. His palm was so hot that she moaned at the moment of contact.

Sitting down on his haunches, he pulled her into his lap so that her back was against his chest. His cock slipped between her thighs. His body burned against hers.

"You were thinking about me?" he whispered by her ear.

"Yes," she whispered back, her eyes closing as she felt his lips smile against her neck.

"What were you thinking about?" His hands were sliding up to cup her breasts.

"Our first time."

"What about it?" His hands were sliding down to her waist, down to tip her hips forwards, so that she was on her hands and knees. She complied with his every guiding move.

"How perfect it was."

"It was perfect, wasn't it?" Then he was sliding inside of her, and they were both moaning out loud as the sudden sensation of sex overtook them.

He pulled her back into his lap. Her head lolled back onto his shoulder as she stilled her body, wanting to savor this long-awaited moment of consummation.

"Oh my God I've missed you," she sighed as his hands slid up to her breasts again.

"I missed you too," he sighed back.

She raised her hips up, up, slowly, as slowly as possible, as high as she could go, and then slid down again. She let out a strangled noise and heard Chuck cursing in her ear. She was already tightening around his cock. The frenzy of excitement in her loins was so intense that it was almost painful.

Stilling her lower body, she tilted her head back and kissed him over her shoulder, and he kissed her back hungrily as their bodies curved together.

His hands tightened on her hips, holding them in place.

"Fuck, Blair," he said into her ear, sounding a little sheepish, "I wanted this to go on for hours, but I'm seriously about to lose it."

"Really?" Blair said with a satisfied grin, after taking a moment to absorb his words.

"Yes," he groaned. "Like a hydrogen bomb about to detonate."

"Can I make you _explode_?" she teased, grinding her hips back into him.

The whistling noise of his breath through his teeth telegraphed that even this slight motion had nearly sent him over the edge.

Blair disengaged her body from his and turned around. "So, come here," she said, flipping her hair back over her shoulders with a seductive smile. She lay down on her back and slid her hands down his chest, hooking her legs around him. "We'll explode together. And then we can spend the rest of the night making up for lost time."

His eyes roved over her pert breasts, the indention of her navel, the cleft between her spread legs.

"Promise me you won't laugh if this is over in two seconds," he said sternly, as he crept forward to hover over her body, setting his hands on either side of her shoulders.

"I think I might be too busy screaming," she replied as provocatively as possible.

She'd barely finished speaking before he was forcing her mouth open with a rough, aggressive kiss. His tongue dominated hers as he pressed his rigid cock against the flesh of her upper thigh, hard enough to bruise.

_Two can play at that game_, she thought with a burst of passion, and grabbed his hair and wrenched his head back so that she could look him in the eyes.

"Fuck me like that," she ordered him, and he instantly complied, thrusting his cock into her with such force that she let out a sharp cry of surprise.

In retaliation she clawed her nails into his chest, leaving little red marks.

"Oh, you want to roughhouse?" he playfully demanded, and started pounding into her, fucking her so hard she was moaning obscenities within seconds—God, it would have hurt if it hadn't felt so good, that hard rough rhythm he was beating out right now.

BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM, said the headboard to the wall, keeping time with his thrusts. "_Fuck_," they rasped at each other, their eyes clenched shut, their hands white-knuckled with force, as they fit and slipped and fit into each other again.

In less than a minute they were both coming at once, swept up in one of those monstrous orgasms that holds you down and refuses to let you go, cry all you might, and they _did_ cry out, in long wavering ecstatic moans, until they were all gasping lungs, trembling flesh and light heads.

When her vision finally returned, Blair was staring at the ceiling, feeling extraordinarily stupid. Chuck was lying on top of her, panting.

"Holy shit," he said in a throaty whisper, plainly still in recovery.

It took Blair about ten seconds to understand his meaning and to formulate a response.

"That was one hell of a _boom_," she said dumbly.

Still looking a bit shaky, Chuck lifted himself onto his elbows, but he didn't withdraw from her immediately. Instead, he looked down at her and pushed her hair back from her forehead. Her lips were just parted, her eyes bright, her cheeks tinted red. Her loose curls were strewn about the pillow, framing her face.

"God, you're so fucking beautiful," he murmured, his eyes floating over her visage.

He cradled her face with his hands. Kissed her sweetly.

"I love you," he said fervently.

"I love you too," she said with a smile, her brain still hazy with post-orgasmic bliss.

"You're it for me. You know that, right?" He tilted his hips forward, filling her up with his still-hard cock, as if to affirm his words with his presence inside of her.

"Mmm," she hummed in appreciation. "I do now."

He repeated the motion. "How about now?" he said with a smile.

"Are we going straight into round two?" she asked, pretending to be dubious.

"Maybe," he returned in an equally teasing tone. "Or…" He pulled out of her gingerly and let himself collapse onto his side, his arm tucked around her waist. "Maybe you could do what you were doing earlier. I really liked that."

Blair raised her eyebrows. "You like standing in the shadows like a total creeper while I fantasize about you?"

"Well, you were already saying my name before I even came in," he said, lazily palming her breast. "It was very flattering."

Blair pulled herself up.

"From now on, you need to make sure that it never gets to the point where I have to take matters into my own hands," she ordered, looking down at him imperiously.

"But you look so good doing it," he protested.

"Bass." There was warning in her tone.

"Yes?"

"Shut up and fuck me some more."

"Yes ma'am."

**—**

A slight noise at the door woke Chuck from a sound sleep.

Groggy, he looked up, blinking, and saw Serena tiptoeing inside Blair's bedroom, wearing workout clothes. She'd taken up running a few weeks ago. He'd teased her about her new fitness regimen until she finally got fed up and dared him to run with her one day.

He would not be teasing Serena about her running again.

Barely making a sound, Serena tiptoed over to the chest of drawers, opened the top drawer, and began to rummage around in it. Probably looking for a headband to borrow, Chuck figured. Blair was always complaining about that.

Sure enough, Serena found an elastic headband, slid the drawer shut, and turned to leave the room. Then she caught sight of Chuck, lying in bed with Blair fast asleep at his side.

Her mouth dropped open in astonishment. She clapped her hand over it.

Chuck raised his finger to his lips. Gestured down at Blair with his eyes.

Serena beamed, spun round in a circle, and then touched the approximate location of her heart with her two pointer fingers. Then she blew him and Blair a kiss, and, still clutching the borrowed headband, floated out the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Chuck couldn't help a laugh. It was nearly silent, but the movement of his chest caused Blair to stir in her sleep. Mumbling something indecipherable, she cuddled closer to him, draping her arm over his chest and tucking her leg over his thigh.

He peered down at her and brushed a strand of hair back from her face. There was still color in her cheeks, a soft smile on her lips.

She looked so content, he thought as he looked down at her beautiful face, her almost angelic expression. _Radiant_, even.

And he was the one who made her feel this way.

Upon this realization he felt a burst of gratitude for every moment that had brought him to this moment—_all_ of it, his entire life, the good and the bad together.

Then he tried to imagine waking up next to Blair tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, and so on, _ad finitum_, for the rest of his life.

He'd attempted this before—dozens of times, both when he was with Blair and when he was alone. But it had never felt as easy as it did right now.

Closing his eyes and resting his cheek on the top of Blair's head, Chuck drifted back into a happy, peaceful sleep.


	18. Epilogue

**Several months later.**

"Serena?" Dan called out through the door to the loft, as he pulled off his messenger bag and deposited it on the couch. He removed his wool cap, unbuttoned his coat, and hung them both up by the entryway, taking care not to tangle his scarf in the Christmas tree beside the sofa. Despite Serena's voiced intentions to keep the tree up until Valentine's, he was adamant that it was going on the curb day after tomorrow, at the very latest. Who kept up a Christmas tree past New Year's? People with no respect for tradition, that's who.

Or people who didn't mind the prickly sensation of sloughed-off pine needles jabbing into the soles of their feet…

"I've got news," he announced in a cheery voice, pulling a bottle of…Grand Cru? …out of his bag. Okay, he didn't know much about champagne, but surely anything that bubbled and fizzed would suffice. "Come on out, I want to tell you all—"

He cut himself off as soon as he saw it—the Manila envelope he'd left ripped open on the kitchen counter, along with the letter from _The Peoria Review_.

Dan didn't have to read it. He already knew what it said. He had read it several times over, almost to the point of memorization, before dashing to the nearest wine and liquor store to buy this bottle of whatever-it-was so that he and Serena could toast his good fortune.

He had finally had another story accepted for publication—his first after a long, long sophomore slump. To say he was excited was an understatement. But there was one thing tempering his good mood, which was that the subject matter of this particular masterwork was a little…touchy, so he needed to explain it to Serena before she read it. Preferably after she'd downed a glass or two of sparking, alcoholic liquid.

Unfortunately, his laptop was sitting open beside the acceptance letter on the counter. He did not remember leaving his laptop on the counter. This was a very bad sign.

With a feeling of impending doom, he traced a squiggle on the trackpad. The screen instantly brightened to reveal an open Word document: "The Tragic and Lamentable Death of Charlie Trout," by Daniel R. Humphrey.

"_Shit_," Dan said.

At that moment, Serena bustled in from the bedroom. An overnight bag was slung over her shoulder by its strap, bouncing against her hip.

"Um, Serena," he said, hesitating. "Did you…did you happen to read—"

"I can't believe you, Dan," Serena said, her voice full of anger and disappointment.

Dan looked at her for a beat. "So…you _did_ read it."

Her face set in stone, she made a motion to move past him towards the door.

"Serena, _wait_, I…" Dan whirled around, searching for a way to explain. "_Look_. I never meant to write about Blair, and Chuck, and Mack, but…one night, I sat down at my laptop, and the entire thing just _flew_ from my fingertips. It was like the Muses had a direct line into my brain!"

Neither this explanation nor Dan's purported relationship with Greek mythological figures appeared to impress Serena very much.

"When were you going to tell me?" she demanded.

"Umm." The truth was, Dan hadn't planned that far in advance. He figured he'd cross that bridge when he came to it. Which was…now, apparently.

Crap.

"You weren't," Serena answered for him. "I _knew_ it."

"I _was_," Dan insisted. "I always planned on telling you, if…" He faltered for a moment. "I just figured it was a moot point unless it actually got accepted for publication. Which it did, so…"

He gestured towards the bottle of bubbly on the kitchen counter, already sweating droplets of condensation.

Serena looked at him as though he'd lost his mind. "You think this is a cause for _celebration_?"

"I…I thought you'd be happy for me," he said, lamely. "Maybe."

"Writing this story was bad enough, Dan," Serena said. "Let alone trying to publish it."

She took a deep breath, and then looked at him as if she might be willing, just for a second, to try to understand. "What on earth were you thinking?"

"I had to try, Serena," Dan said. "I…It's been so long since I've published anything. And that was only in a contest for teenagers. And—" He gestured towards the letter on the table. "I only submitted it to small, obscure publications. I didn't intend for anyone to see it. I mean—anyone we _know_," he corrected. "Besides you, of course," he corrected again.

Serena continued to look at him for a beat. "That's it?" she asked, in complete disbelief. "You have nothing else to say?"

He thought he'd run through the gamut of excuses. "What else do you want me to say?"

"That you're going to write the Schenectady Review and withdraw your submission," she said, with a gesture that communicated her surprise at having to explain this to him at all. "Dan, this isn't even real fiction! It's just a re-worked version of what actually happened to Chuck and Blair. But they're not your characters. They don't _belong_ to you. It is _not _okay to do this to them. You _have_ to withdraw the story."

"I…" Dan looked at the floor and took a deep breath, formulating his response. "Okay, first of all, it's not the Schenectady Review, okay? It's _The Peoria Review_, which actually is a highly respected—"

"Aughhh!" Serena groaned. "Dan, no one cares what review it is!"

"Okay, okay," Dan said defensively, holding up his hands. "To the second point…it is a _heavily_ fictionalized version of real events, a _pastiche_, if you will, and many, many writers have used the same technique—"

Serena dismissed this argument with one shake of her blonde head. "Third point."

"…what was the third point again?" Dan asked, after a pause.

"Withdrawing the story," she reminded him forcefully. "That thing you're going to do."

Dan bit his lips. "I can't," he half-whispered.

She stared at him, uncomprehending, her mouth open with an unspoken _why_.

Dan looked at his beautiful and compassionate girlfriend. She had always thought the best of him. She'd always supported him as a writer. And, without even knowing it, she'd fueled his ambition, too, because he'd always known that he would have to do something truly extraordinary to keep a girl like Serena van der Woodsen interested in him past high school. And despite the fact that he knew his reply would disillusion her, that it would lay him bare as a pretender and a hack, he had no choice but to tell her but the truth—at least, the truth as he saw it.

"I'll never write anything this good again," he said quietly. "I can't just stick it in a drawer and forget about it. I just…I can't."

Serena was silent for a moment, then folded her arms over her chest. "Let me get this straight," she said. "You wrote a 'heavily fictionalized version' of the most painful and embarrassing experience of my best friend's life, and you're pleading 'Not Guilty' by reason of artistic merit? _That's_ your excuse?"

He looked at her, and sighed, and turned up his hands.

"Tell me you don't think it's good," he said, knowing this was his last chance.

Serena stared at him as if he were someone she no longer knew.

"I _don't_ think it's good, Dan," she said.

She brushed past him to the front door, paying no heed to his attempts to stop her, and slammed it on her way out.

Dan looked after her for a moment and sighed. Then he looked over at the countertop, at the letter that still lay there, at the open screen of the laptop, at the title page bearing his name.

He edged towards it, and, with gentle, almost loving motions of his fingers, scrolled through the pages of his story.

It was a nuanced, yet sympathetic portrait of a young man from the most privileged sector of society. One whose arrogance hid a deep and abiding insecurity. Whose superlative wealth hid his consummate loneliness.

Who thought himself unloved, and unlovable.

In his story, Claire Carlisle, the on-again, off-again girlfriend of Charlie Trout, boy billionaire, cheated on him with a lover from her past. When Charlie found out, he refused to speak to her, or anyone, and holed himself up in his penthouse apartment for a week-long binge. So she enlisted her reluctant friend, the young playwright Dylan Hunter, to go see Charlie, speak to him, beg him to forgive her.

The resulting scene was very much like Dan's visit to the Empire penthouse, only with a much more somber conclusion. One that, Dan had to admit, he loved every single word of.

"_You don't understand, Hunter," Charlie said. He was teetering on his feet, swaying back and forth, and his proximity to the balcony's edge was making Dylan terribly nervous. "She'll move on from me. But I can't. I just can't. I tried, I tried _so hard_, but I couldn't stop loving her for one single day."_

"_Charlie, come away from there," Dylan said, gently but firmly. "Charlie, come on—"_

"_And I never will," Charlie finished, his voice breaking, and let his hands fall to his sides._

_Then he took a single step onto the railing, and then another, so that he was standing on top of it. And then he was suddenly gone. _

_Dylan lifted his hand to his mouth. A split-second later, there was a noise—a dull thud, and the sickening _crack_._

_Then a cry, from far below._

_Dylan looked over the balcony. Charlie's body was lying on the pavement, motionless, like one of those tape-silhouettes in noir film crime scenes. His limbs were splayed in the shape of a swastika. Blood pooled around his head like a halo._

"_Goddammit, Charlie," he whispered._

_A small crowd was already gathering around the corpse. Someone was taking a picture with their cell phone. He could see the flash from forty stories up. _

_At first, Dylan wanted to yell down at them. Tell them to show some decency. But even as his mouth was opening, even as he was taking a deep breath to force out the words, he realized it was pointless. _

_They'd never left Charlie alone when he was alive. Why would they stop now, now that he was dead?_

_He didn't cry. Not until the police arrived. Not until he had to explain each and every event leading up to Charlie's small, wretched, tragic death. Because when he did, something became clear to Dylan, something he'd never wanted to believe. _

_Which was: The only thing that could stop Charlie Trout from loving Claire Carlisle was death. And even that was debatable._

—

"I told you, I'm _not going_!" Blair yelled, slamming the door shut behind her.

"Blair," Chuck said through the bedroom door. He paused for a moment, listening for an answer. "We promised."

"_You_ promised," she retorted, still clearly audible through the door's thick mahogany. "And that was before we knew about Humphrey's little story about Claire Carlisle the cheating whore."

Chuck leaned against the door frame and sighed. It was New Year's Eve, one of the most jubilant holidays of the year, and all of his expectations for the evening had been dashed by one phone call as soon as their plane had touched down in New York. Honestly, he wished that Serena had just called him instead, so he could have taken care of this matter privately before Blair had even heard about it. Or simply waited until after the holidays to tell her about Dan Humphrey's latest fanfiction…

"Blair, we can still have a good time at the party," he reminded her. "Besides Serena, we're the only ones who even know about it."

"Not _yet_, maybe. But sooner or later someone will get their grubby hands on that two-bit literary journal, and send a tip to Page 6. Or to Gossip Girl!"

"It can't be scheduled to be published for another six months, at least," Chuck said. "And how much crossover do you really think there is between readers of Gossip Girl and the staff at _The Peoria Review_?"

"More than you'd think!" Blair snapped. "People from every social stratum read Gossip Girl. Including PhD students and…biochemists, and…pseudo-intellectuals. Like Dan Humphrey!"

He leaned against the door again. "Blair, come on," he said, as patiently as he could. "You don't really think that story will see the light of day, do you? We both know I could buy out _The_ _Peoria Review_ if I wanted to. You know…I make a generous donation, Humphrey's story disappears…" He trailed off. "It's a non-issue."

He paused. "Something else is bothering you."

He was hoping Blair would admit to the truth. That they could have a calm discussion, using the active listening technique that their therapist had taught them, and show up cool and collected to celebrate the New Year with his family.

"We can cancel," he heard Blair say through the door.

Closing his eyes, Chuck planted his forehead into the doorframe. "No, we can't," he said into it, trying to hide his frustration.

"We can say we're still jetlagged from Paris."

"We spent Christmas with your family." He paused. "This is _my_ family, Blair."

It was a soft, tender plea.

Blair sighed and opened the door. "Fine," she said. "I'll go, but I don't have to be happy about it."

He stepped closer to her, and cupped her at the waist with his hand. She was wearing a black slip, one of his favorites. Its hem barely skimmed her thighs.

"You sure you don't want to work out some of that frustration first?" he said, very near her ear, gently pulling her towards him.

Blair pulled away, glowering, and headed towards her dressing room. "Like I don't see where this is going."

"Where's that?" Chuck asked, as if he didn't know the answer.

"You trying to sex me up and get me in a better mood before the party. Well, it isn't going to work. Believe me, I have an endless ocean of bitchery at my disposal and I am going to tsunami it all over Dan Humphrey as soon as I get the chance."

She turned to her vanity and began to select a set of earrings to wear. Then she let out a sudden yelp, and turned around to face Chuck.

"Did you just...spank me?" she asked, astonished.

"Yes."

The look in Blair's eyes was a formidable one. "May I ask _why_?"

"I was hoping it would knock a little of that bitchery out of you," Chuck replied, with an almost imperceptible smile. "Did it work?"

Blair stared at him a moment. Then she turned around to the vanity again and set her palms down on its edge, prominently displaying the way her slip hugged her backside.

"I don't know," she said, as though she were genuinely unsure. She looked back at him over her shoulder. "Give it another try."

Slowly, Chuck pulled the hem of her slip over her hips, exposing the bare skin of her ass. After gently running his palm over its curves for a moment, he lifted his hand and slapped her again with a loud _smack_.

Blair shuddered and gasped.

"Again," she said, and he complied, spanking her on the other side, leaving the skin flushed and reddened. He repeated the motion a few more times, until they were both trembling slightly, and more than a little out of breath.

"How about now?" he asked, licking his lips.

"Nope," Blair sighed after a second's pause. "I'm still just as bitchy as I was before."

She looked at him over her shoulder again, her hair cascading sexily over her face. "I guess you're going to have to fuck it out of me," she said.

Chuck raised his eyebrows. "Oh, I intend to," he said.

—

"Charles, Blair, so nice to see you," Lily effused. She embraced Chuck, and added, in his ear, "Even if you are almost an entire hour late."

"Blair got a little tied up," Chuck explained.

"Oh, I wasn't the only one," Blair said brightly, shooting a sweet smile at Chuck.

Lily's penthouse was resplendent with light. Guests dressed in black tie and evening gowns were chatting in small groups, and white-collared waiters wove around and through them bearing trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres. Beside the blazing fireplace, the giant Christmas tree was hung heavy with ornaments. The smell of hot cider wafted through the air.

"How was your Christmas, dear?" Lily asked Blair, as the latter plucked a flute of champagne from a passing tray.

"Perfect," Blair admitted, tilting the flute to her lips. "You know how much I love Paris. And Daddy and Roman and Chuck got on famously."

"That's wonderful to hear," Lily said, smiling at Blair. "And…oh!" Her eyes caught on Blair's wrist. "Do I spy a new bracelet?"

As Blair extended her hand and Lily gushed compliments, Chuck glanced around the room, catching sight of Nate. He was standing with his arm half-around a lovely woman in her mid-thirties with olive skin and large brown eyes.

"Looks like Nathaniel brought a date," he remarked.

"Another cougar-of-the-week? _Quelle surprise_," Blair commented.

"You know, I haven't had the chance to meet her yet," Lily said. "I think I heard that she was Spanish."

Nate soon spotted Chuck, excused himself from the small group he'd been talking to, and came across the room to greet them.

"Hi guys," he said, his hand at his date's back.

Blair smiled in a way that would have appeared genuine to anyone who didn't know her very well, or at all. "I'm Blair," she said, extending her hand to Nate's companion. "You must be Recently Divorced."

"Blair," Chuck said, his tone a mixture of reprimand and amusement.

"This is Rafaela," Nate said. "Rafa, this is Blair, and Chuck, and Lily."

Rafaela shook hands with all of them. "Encantada," she said, flashing a beautiful smile.

"Likewise, I'm sure," Lily replied. She gestured back-and-forth between the two of them. "So, how did you two meet?"

Rafaela looked at Nate with wide uncomprehending eyes.

"Um, she doesn't really speak much English," Nate explained.

"No English," Rafaela said regretfully, in a heavy Spanish accent.

"Oh, Nathaniel, do you speak Spanish?" Lily asked.

"Um. Un poquito?" Nate tried.

Rafaela giggled and leaned in to kiss him, and he gestured towards the bar, where they headed, arm in arm, for another drink.

Blair shrugged. "I guess linguistic barriers don't matter much when you speak the language of love," she remarked wryly.

"Oh, Charles," Lily said suddenly, touching her hand down briefly on his shoulder. "Before I forget – I wanted to ask if you could join us for a picture. Since we have everyone together, I thought it would be lovely to get a family portrait..."

"Sure," Chuck said, absurdly touched by this. He couldn't remember ever being part of a family portrait before.

"Wonderful! Will you meet us by the tree? I'll go fetch Serena and Eric, the last I saw them they were standing by the bar." A wrinkle appeared on Lily's brow. "I hope Serena can at least _look_ happy for the picture," she confided. "She's in a _very_ strange mood tonight."

She then floated off, leaving Chuck with Blair. He glanced at her questioningly.

"Oh, don't worry about me," she said with a sigh. "I'll…mingle."

He kissed her on the cheek. "Behave yourself."

There was a glimmer of wickedness in Blair's eyes. "Never."

—

Serena was standing by the tree with her arms crossed, wearing a short red dress and a sour expression. Eric was beside her, making a comment in her ear - it must have been funny, because Chuck could see her smile faintly in response.

"Hey," he greeted his siblings. He kissed the lukewarm Serena on her cheek, then pulled Eric into a hug. "Have you gotten taller since Thanksgiving?" he asked, looking him up-and-down.

"Maybe?" Eric said, very hopefully.

"All right, now that we're all here," Lily said as she approached. She inserted herself in the center of the group and put her arms around them. "Everyone smile for the camera!"

She beamed. Eric smiled. Chuck half-smiled. Serena just stared straight ahead, poker-faced.

A series of flashbulbs went off, causing everyone to grimace and blink tears from their eyes.

"Mom, this feels like an assault," Serena complained.

"Serena, really," Lily said, with just a hint of impatience. "I don't know what's gotten into you tonight. It'll only take another minute."

There were a few more flashes, then the photographer signaled a thumbs-up – she'd gotten the shot.

"Let's take a couple with just the three of you," she said, gesturing to Serena, Eric and Chuck.

Lily stepped away, looking at them from the side with hands clasped to her chest.

"My beautiful children," she sighed, radiating pride, as the photographer focused and refocused her lens, clicking away.

"Okay, mom - you are _way_ too sentimental," Eric joked.

"You'll understand when you have children one day," Lily said warmly. "Trust me." Then she whirled away, mouth widening in a society smile, to greet a late-coming guest.

"Finally," Serena said, when the photographer lowered her camera and stepped away. She took Chuck by the arm and pulled him aside. "How's Blair doing?" she said, lowering her voice. "I haven't talked to her since yesterday."

"All things considered, she took it…very well," Chuck replied suggestively.

"Ugh." Serena's nose curled. "I really wish I didn't know what that meant."

"I'm handling it," Chuck said with a shrug. "It's no cause for concern." He took a second glance at Serena's stormy expression. "Unless…you're not just angry on Blair's behalf?"

"Of course I'm angry on Blair's behalf!" Serena retorted. "Dan is supposed to be her friend, and he does _this_ to her?" She shook her head vehemently.

"Look, sis," Chuck interrupted, "as loath as I am to interrupt a litany of Dan Humphrey's moral failings, I can't help but notice – you're angrier at him than _Blair_ is." His eyes scanned her face, searching for an answer. "I just haven't figured out _why_."

Serena opened her mouth to answer, and, after a few comical seconds, during which he continued to look at her, Chuck finally concluded that no answer was forthcoming.

"Maybe you haven't figured out why, either," he ventured, raising his glass of scotch to his lips.

At that moment, as if on cue, the elevator doors _pinged_ open and Dan Humphrey walked into the penthouse. He wasn't even wearing a tux.

"Typical," Blair said, echoing Chuck's thoughts, as she walked up behind him and Serena._ "_Only Humphrey would show up to a black tie event in …" She squinted at Dan's choice of attire. "Are those _Wranglers_? Are they supposed to be _ironic_?"

"Ugh, I am so not in the mood to deal with him right now," Serena grumbled. "I'm gonna go get another cinnamon martini."

Dan was scanning through the people gathered by the fireplace, searching for – Blair and Chuck, apparently. He made a beeline straight towards them.

"Oh, this should be good," Blair muttered into the rim of her champagne flute.

"Blair…" Dan said, clearing his throat. "Chuck…" he added with a wince, obviously having some trouble incorporating Chuck into his apology. "First off, I wanted to tell you—I'm sorry. I withdrew the story. And…" He sighed. "I'm sorry that I even wrote it in the first place. It was wrong of me, and…I'm sorry. Again."

After he finished stammering out his apology, he visibly steeled himself. But when he looked up, Blair was just staring at him in incomprehension.

"What are you waiting for?" she asked.

"Um, I don't know. For you…to hit me?" Dan's voice rose nervously on the "me."

"I'm not going to _hit_ you, Humphrey," Blair said, annoyed. "I'm just glad you've seen the error of your ways. For once."

Dan raised his eyebrows. "You mean - you're not angry at me?"

"Of course I'm angry at you!" Blair replied with a scowl. "Make no mistake - this was a really, really shitty thing to do. I wouldn't have thought you were even capable of doing something this selfish. It's completely inexcusable."

Dan hung his head.

"But…" Blair continued, begrudging forgiveness in her tone, "you've admitted that you were wrong, and you've tried to make amends…and you _have_ been a good friend over the past year, so…" She sighed. "I guess we just have to move on from here."

"So…we're still friends?" Dan said, hardly daring to believe it.

"Yes, we're still friends," Blair said, rolling her eyes.

There was a short silence, which Chuck ended.

"We're still _not_ friends, Humphrey," he clarified. "Just so we're on the same page."

"Right, well," Dan said. "I'd be perfectly happy to go back to our usual grudging tolerance?"

"Done," Chuck said with finality.

Visibly relieved, Dan turned to Serena, who had rejoined the group, cinnamon martini in hand.

"So I take it you're forgiven," she said, not sounding particularly pleased.

"Serena, look –" Dan began hesitantly. "I thought about what you said and…you were right. I withdrew the story. It's gone. Poof."

He looked at her unchanging expression, frowned, and then threw in an extra apology, just in case. "I'm sorry…okay?"

Serena gave a sharp shrug. "Am I supposed to be happy now?"

"I was hoping you'd be happi-_er_?" Dan offered.

Serena scoffed, tossed her hair and flounced away.

Dan raised his hands and let them fall again. "What did I do now?" he said, perplexed.

"Well, for starters, you expected her to be grateful for an apology that was ineloquent at best and passive-aggressive at worst," Blair pointed out.

"I just don't understand what more she wants from me," Dan griped. "I've admitted I'm wrong, I retracted the story…" He gestured towards Blair. "Hell, _you're_ not even that mad at me. So why is Serena still giving me grief?"

"Humphrey, don't you get it?" Blair said. "This isn't about you and me. It's about you and Serena."

And with that, she followed after her friend, leaving Dan and Chuck standing alone.

There was an awkward pause.

"Well…what about you?" Dan finally asked, unable to hide his curiosity. "You're the only person who doesn't seem upset with me…like, at all."

Chuck shrugged. "Unlike Blair and Serena, I didn't take your story personally. You see, since I _have_ no personal relationship with you..."

"Har har," Dan said.

"Seriously, Humphrey. You're a writer. Writing from life…I hear that's what writers do."

"You mean, you actually read it?" Dan sounded more eager than embarrassed. "Wait…did Serena send it to you and Blair?" he followed up confusedly.

"No, she didn't want Blair to read it - she thought it would upset her too much. But I wanted to see what I was up against." Chuck sipped his scotch. "It took my systems administrator at the Empire less than two minutes to crack the password of the _Peoria Review_'s submissions inbox. Not exactly a top-of-the-line publication, is it?"

"Hm," Dan hummed, looking a bit chagrined. "Well, what did you think?"

Chuck regarded him. "That your obsession with me knows no bounds?"

"Really, Chuck. Come on."

Chuck's face was unperturbed. "Honestly, Humphrey, I can't say I liked it much."

Dan's face fell. "Why not?"

"Well. I thought it glorified the kind of self-destructive behavior that I would prefer to leave squarely in my past."

"Glorify? Wh—I don't understand. Your character _dies_ at the end."

"Yes, but he dies as this…noble, suffering figure. Because his love for Blair—excuse me—_Claire_—is just so _powerful_." Chuck shrugged again. "It's a little heavy-handed."

"But…it's a love story," Dan said lamely. "It's supposed to be a bit…larger than life. And have a tragic ending. That's how the trope works."

"Not all love stories end unhappily, Humphrey," Chuck said. "You should know that by now."

Dan stood there for a moment in silence, apparently trying to accept Chuck's critique with equanimity. Still, he looked nothing less than crestfallen.

Chuck cleared his throat. He was having an odd impulse. He actually felt like saying something…encouraging. To Dan Humphrey.

Because Dan _had_ been a good friend to Blair over the past year, and, loath as he was to admit it, Chuck also knew he'd done a great deal to bring them back together.

Also, if his story hadn't been so melodramatic, it might have actually been kind of…not bad.

"For what it's worth, Dan…" Trying to avoid making eye contact, Chuck stared somewhere over the other man's shoulder instead. "I think you're capable of better."

Across the penthouse, over by the staircase, Nate was trying to catch Chuck's eye. When he did, he raised his eyebrows and lifted a touching finger and thumb to his lips - the universal gesture for "let's go smoke up."

"If you'll excuse me," Chuck said, a very old-school smirk on his face, and began to move towards the staircase.

"Hey—"

Feeling a hand on his shoulder, he turned around - instantly wary that Humphrey would try to turn this into some kind of bonding moment.

Dan gestured back-and-forth between them with his finger. "Still not friends, right?" he asked.

Chuck exhaled a half-laugh, half-breath of relief. "Still not friends," he confirmed.

"Good. Just had to double-check, after that…effusive praise."

"Don't mention it, Humphrey," Chuck said. "No…really," he reiterated, stone-faced, after Dan cracked a smile. "Do not mention it, ever again."

—

"It's going to sound selfish," Serena was saying, holding a half-eaten éclair in her hand. She and Blair were in the kitchen – Serena sitting on the counter, Blair leaning against it – both having sought out an unoccupied spot in the penthouse where they could talk in private. "I mean, the story was about _you_. Your relationship with Chuck. If anyone has the right to be upset about it, it's you two. But…I just can't help thinking…" She trailed off, seeming reluctant to finish.

"S, it's okay," Blair said, already knowing what Serena was going to say.

Serena took another moment to finish her éclair. Blair had encouraged her to eat it, gathering from Serena's foul mood that she'd forgotten to eat dinner and had moved straight to cocktails instead.

"If Dan wanted to write some big epic love story…" she began, after licking a dollop of cream from her thumb, "then…why didn't he write about us? I mean, he used to dedicate whole stories and poems to me, and I wasn't even in this one _at all._"

She sighed, and tucked her hair behind her ear. "I know, it sounds so stupid."

"It doesn't sound stupid," Blair assured her, stroking her back. "And you _know_ why Dan didn't write about you. You two practically live together now. You're not some fantasy to him any more." She paused for emphasis. "You're real."

"I'm real, all right," Serena grumbled. "Real boring."

"Oh, come on, S," Blair said, dismissing this with a wave of her fingers. "It's not that at all. It's just…you know that Humphrey's style has always been a bit overblown. He amplifies the decadence of the Upper East Side so that he can launch a more scathing critique. It's practically his writerly M.O."

"Yeah, that's another thing that bothers me," Serena added, reaching for another éclair. "He acts like he's somehow above it all, but the Upper East Side is all he ever writes about."

Hmm, Blair thought. Now that Serena mentioned it, this tendency of Humphrey's was pretty perturbing.

Well, what else was he going to write about? Puttering around the loft? Going to class?

"The point is," she said, trying to get her conversation with Serena back on track, "you're _allowed_ to be bothered. Your feelings are totally valid."

"Right," Serena seconded through a mouthful of éclair.

"But…" Blair continued, in a tone that suggested there was a condition involved, "if you want Dan to respond to your feelings, you kind of have to tell him about them." She shrugged. "Our therapist says that's the way that it works."

Serena scowled. "I'm too annoyed with him to talk to him right now."

"Serena, if that logic were universally applicable, no one would ever speak to Dan Humphrey, ever again."

Serena laughed. "Fine," she said, wiping her hands on a napkin, and hopped off the counter. "I'll talk to my stupid, annoying-ass boyfriend." She glanced at Blair, a hint of admiration in her eyes. "When did you become such a repository of good relationship advice, by the way?"

"Probably when I started actually having a good relationship," Blair said with a smile.

Serena pulled her into a hug. "I'm glad things are going so well with Chuck, B," she said, her arms tight around Blair.

Blair leaned into the hug, set her head on Serena's shoulder.

"Me too," she admitted.

—

Leaning against the doorframe and groping around in the darkness, Chuck was searching for a hidden compartment in a closet in a spare bedroom – a bedroom that had once been his, back in high school.

"There's no way it's still there," Nate said skeptically.

"Aha." Chuck made a triumphant sound as he pulled out the sought-after artifact - a toilet paper tube with a dryer sheet stapled to one end. He had searched for it more out of nostalgia than any real faith in its utility, but Nate still seemed to believe that these contraptions actually worked.

He held it up to his friend, smiling.

"Well. I am literally speechless," Nate said.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Nathaniel," Chuck said, as he took the spliff from Nate's fingers. "You shouldn't use words like 'literally' if you're going to use them wrongly."

Nate's brow knit. "Don't you mean…'wrong?'"

"…No," Chuck said, after staring at Nate for a moment. "'Wrong' is an adjective. 'Wrongly' is an adverb. When was the last time you read something other than a text message?" He lit the joint.

"Oh, come on," Nate said. "I read things."

"ESPN dot com, Maxim and Game Informer don't count," he returned with a chuckle, and exhaled through the tube.

Suddenly, the door opened, and Serena swung herself into the bedroom, holding onto the frame.

"I knew we'd find you boys in here," she said conspiratorially, and shot a knowing grin back at Blair, who'd followed close behind her. "Up to no good, I see."

"Uh-oh, busted," Nate said through a smile, taking the joint.

"Are you two attempting to be covert?" Blair asked, eyeing the toilet-paper tube. "Because something tells me those things aren't nearly as effective as stoners think they are."

"I wouldn't worry, Blair," Chuck said. "I'm pretty sure I saw Deirdre Baizen doing a line of coke in the guest bathroom earlier."

"Yeah, this is pretty tame in comparison," Serena agreed. "Especially for a New Year's Eve at the van der Woodsens."

She plopped down next to Nate on the edge of the bed. He bumped his knee against hers affectionately. "Hey," he said.

"Hey yourself. Where's Rafaela?" she wanted to know.

Nate waved his hand. "She found someone to talk Spanish with."

"How can you be in a relationship with someone you can't even communicate with?" Serena said, exasperated, as she plucked the joint away from him. "Really, Nate, you should at least _try_ to learn some Spanish."

"Why?" Nate asked, passing her the tube. "So Rafaela and I can find out that we have nothing to talk about?"

Chuck shrugged in concession. "He does have a point there."

"Also, you're hardly one to talk," Blair said to Serena, after pausing to make a disdainful face when offered the joint (Chuck took it instead). "Remember Dieter?" She imitated a thick German accent. "'_Ve are looking for ze…anti-baby pills_.'"

"Dieter spoke perfect English," Serena defended herself, right before she set the tube against her lips to exhale. "The German word for birth control really is '_Antibabypille_!' And we did eventually find them, by the way," she added.

"Man, Germans are so literal," Nate said.

"Nicely done, Nathaniel," Chuck remarked appreciatively, lifting the joint to his lips.

"However," Blair said to Nate, "it would be nice if, on our next double date, you brought along someone whose company we might actually enjoy."

"What was wrong with Stephanie?" Nate asked.

Blair's eyebrows arched. "She once asked me why Chinese people didn't make a fortune trading in the stock market, since they lived one whole day in the future."

Nate looked at Chuck for back-up, but Chuck was already shaking his head. "All right, she was a little…different," he acceded.

"It would be nice if you settled down with someone for a little while," Serena suggested. "At least so we have a chance to remember their names."

"One day, sure. But right now? I'm twenty-one years old. You guys may have found the person you want to settle down with, but I'm not ready for all that yet."

"You're not marrying Humphrey, are you?" Chuck asked Serena, grimacing.

Serena sighed. "We'll see," she said in a tone that made it clear that Dan still had some work left to do on that front.

"She's kind of stuck with him either way," Nate pointed out. "With their parents being married and all…"

"I really try not to think about that," Serena said.

"Really?" Chuck said. "I thought that was part of the attraction."

Everyone but Chuck groaned.

"Forbidden fruit?" he extrapolated. "Violating a deeply entrenched taboo? It's not like Humphrey has many other charms to speak of…"

"It would go a long way towards explaining the appeal," Blair continued, shooting Serena a look.

"And with that," Serena announced, standing up from the bed, "I'm going to go make up with my boyfriend-"

"_Stepbrother_," Nate coughed.

Chuck snorted at this, and Blair clamped her hand against her lips to stifle a laugh. Serena's mouth opened wide in mock dismay.

"_Et tu, Nate_?" she said, holding her hand to her heart as if mortally wounded.

Nate stared at her, uncomprehending. "I told you, Serena – I don't speak Spanish," he said – and looked astonished when his three friends burst out laughing.

"Oh, Nate Archibald," Blair choked out, when she had finally regained control of her breathing. She wiped away the tears from her lower lashes. "I love you. Always have, always will."

—

Standing by the window on the other side of the fireplace, surrounded by New Year's revelers and feeling exceptionally alone, Dan glanced at his watch. It was now 11:50PM, and he was starting to wonder if he would even have a girlfriend to kiss at midnight.

Suddenly Serena appeared before him, looking tousled and breathless. "Hey," she said.

"Hey," he said, with a note of surprise.

"All right," she said. "I know that you didn't intend for this story to get out. And Blair and Chuck are over it, so I guess I have to be, too." She paused. "I just wish…I wish you would have talked to me about it."

"I know," Dan said guiltily. "I'm sorry."

"I know you've never really felt like you belonged on the Upper East Side," Serena said. "But that doesn't mean that you can use your writing to tear down people you _know_, people who are part of your _family_, to make some kind of hard-hitting point about the 1%, and the Society of the Spectacle, and…" She failed to find a third item for her list. "You know, everything else."

"But I wasn't trying to tear anyone down," Dan insisted. "Well - high society, maybe. But I thought…I thought I was really humanizing Chuck's character."

Serena gaped at him. "You killed him off in the end!"

"I know, I know…I just…" He sighed. "It fit with the tenor of the story. You know - high-drama, high-stakes…"

"You need to start writing different kinds of stories, then," she returned. "Stories about your own experiences, instead of…morality plays about the secret lives of Manhattan's elite."

Dan let out a self-deprecating laugh. "I've tried, believe me. But, you know…the kinds of things I do on a daily basis? Putter around the loft? Go to class? Try to write? They…they just don't seem that important."

"I'm not important, you mean," Serena muttered.

Dan looked startled. "You don't think…you think that I don't think you're important? Serena, what could have given you - " He cut himself off, realizing. "It's because this story wasn't about you, isn't it?"

Serena shrugged one shoulder evasively.

"Okay, now, look - it's true that Chuck and Blair are something of…a special case. They're _begging_ to be written about. They're larger than life."

"And I'm not," she said, looking at the ground.

He took her by the hands. "You _are_ my life, Serena," he said emphatically.

Her expression softened.

"Which is why…" Dan searched for the right explanation. "I thought that if I could write something really spectacular…I'd be a _real_ writer, instead of a…dilettante. Instead of—just…" He hesitated. "I don't know. Someone who just hangs around at the edges of your mother's parties, when he's not off being boring in Brooklyn."

"Dan, you're not some…creeper, standing around in the shadows," Serena countered. "You're right in the middle of this party—this _world_, and you're here with me. And I _need_ you here. All of those times I thought I was going crazy…you were the only thing that kept me sane."

She reached out and took his hands. He clasped them, obviously moved.

"So no more stories about my best friends, okay?" she said. "Because with our family situation the way that it is, this relationship has enough more than enough drama already."

Dan let out a laugh, and nodded in agreement. Then he looked up, scanning her face for a moment or two, trying to figure out if he'd been fully forgiven.

"Are—are we going to kiss now?" he asked.

Serena rolled her eyes. "Come here, you dork," she said.

They kissed as music played through the penthouse. She set her arms over his shoulders, and they lightly swayed in dance.

Over Serena's shoulder, Dan spied Nate, slow-dancing with Rafaela. He shot Dan a quick thumbs-up behind her back.

"You're lucky I have a forgiving heart, Dan Humphrey," Serena murmured into his ear.

"I know I'm lucky," Dan said, and smiled, and kissed her again.

—

"Thanks for calming me down earlier," Blair was saying to Chuck. They were still sitting on the bed in Chuck's old room, silhouetted by the lights of Manhattan sparkling through the floor-length windows behind them. "You know…" (her voice lowered to a guilty grumble) "…when I was throwing a snit-fit over Humphrey's story."

She knew that Chuck had forgiven her - they'd both forgiven each other, for everything. But that didn't make it any easier to revisit the most painful chapter of their relationship, much less suffer the indignity of Humphrey writing some over-dramatic reenactment.

"Is that what we're calling it now?" Chuck said playfully, rubbing her thigh with his hand. "'Calming you down?'"

Blair's face grew serious as she took his hand.

"The truth is…I hated the idea of it," she admitted. "I hated thinking about how upset you were because of what I did." She looked at him, her eyes filled with sadness. "I hated being reminded about how much I hurt you."

He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. "I know you did," he said. "But I'm happy, Blair. And honestly, strange as it may seem…I wouldn't change a thing. Because we're here right now, together."

"And you're stoned," she added, with a knowing smile.

"I _am_ stoned," he agreed.

"And drunk."

"A little." He smirked at her. "You're not mad?"

"No," she said, honestly. "I think you deserve to relax a bit on New Year's Eve."

"So do you," he said, and kissed her, his hand sweeping up her thigh. When he redirected its path between her legs, she pulled back to look at him.

"Again?" she asked, surprised.

"You up for it?" he said.

"The door's unlocked."

"So?" He cocked an eyebrow.

Blair bit her lower lip in a provocative half-smile.

"I think that's my answer," he said, nudging her hair aside to kiss her neck. His fingers again moved up her thighs, almost leisurely, before sweeping around to stroke at the triangle of lace between them.

Blair's eyes closed, her eyelashes meeting in a soft thicket. She exhaled headily and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

"Mm."

"Good?" he asked. His mouth was slightly open. His eyes were taking her in.

He laid her down on her back, pushed her panties aside and ran a finger slowly, slowly, up her folds towards her clit. In response, she ran her hands over his shoulders, enjoying the unmistakable masculine feel of them, their breadth, their strength. She nuzzled into his neck and kissed it, opening her mouth to taste the heat of his skin. She added a soft bite for good measure, and heard him inhale sharply, reacting.

He was beginning to circle her clit with his fingers, slowly and maddeningly, making her stir and writhe between his hand. He increased the pressure, and she breathed out hard against his neck.

When she couldn't bear the building tension any longer, when she was already half-wild with wanting more of him, she grabbed his hand and pushed it down, pushed one of his fingers inside her. He pulled it out and added another.

"Like this?" he asked, and she clutched his shoulders and moaned.

His arm was moving back and forth, fucking her. She pushed back into his hand, as hard as she could, as if daring him to go harder, faster.

Wanting to see the effect she was having on him, she ran her hand down his chest, groping for his cock. She found it easily – it was rock-hard to the touch, straining towards her hand. His obvious arousal made her even more intoxicated, and when he added his other hand to his ministrations, circling her clit with his thumb, she came within seconds. Her stomach tightened, her legs jerked. She cried out, clutching him close to her, and felt him gasp at her force, the way she churned against his hand.

She shuddered, again and again, until she was finally still, her breathing slow and measured again.

He stroked her clit one more time, and the aftershock of pleasure made her gasp.

"Good?" he asked again.

"Mm," she said again, more than satisfied.

He ran his hand along her thigh, leaving a sheen of wetness. He raised his hand to her face, stroked his thumb along the curve of her lower lip. She took it into her mouth, tasting herself.

Chuck exhaled through slack lips, mesmerized by this sight.

"What about you?" she asked, reaching down towards his pants again.

"I'm fine for now," he said, though he couldn't help pressing himself into her hand as he said the words. "I wanted this to be for you."

"You sure?" She ran her palm up and down, testing his resolve.

"Yeah." He took her hand, kissed it. "Don't worry. We'll have plenty of time for you to reciprocate later tonight."

"Soon we'll have a whole new year," she added brightly, and sat up in bed, looking at him with affectionate eyes.

"And the year after that?" he asked playfully.

"And the year after that," she said. "And the year after that…"

She smiled, knowing her implication was clear – that she planned to stay with him forever.

But to her surprise, he didn't answer. He was touching her stomach with his palm, looking preoccupied.

She raised an eyebrow. "Chuck?" she prodded.

"How many kids do you want?" he asked.

Blair's eyebrows flew upwards. "Wh-what?" she sputtered, taken aback.

"How many kids do you want," he patiently repeated.

"You really_ are_ stoned," she said, still trying to manage her reaction to his words – half thrilled, half terrified.

"Seriously, Blair." Chuck's voice was soft.

Blair eyed him suspiciously. "How many kids do _you_ want?" she asked.

Chuck's lips pursed in deliberation. "Four."

"_Four?"_ Blair exclaimed, her voice rising several registers. "Are you kidding me? My body will never recover."

"Oh, don't worry," he said languidly. "There's exercises for that."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Down here." He slid his hand up her thigh again. "To tighten you up so that you can continue to give me pleasure after you pop out a litter of Basses."

Blair pulled away from him. "You're disgusting," she pretended to grouse.

Chuck laughed, and pulled her back toward him. "I mean it," he said. "I've been thinking about the future, and I wouldn't mind having a lot of people around."

"Well, Nate will probably still be crashing in the guest bedroom," Blair reasoned. "Unless one of his cougars decides to adopt."

Chuck's eyes grew thoughtful. "You know, I hated being an only child," he confided. "It was always so… quiet. I ate breakfast every day, alone. Housekeepers and au pairs cooked for me. Until I was a teenager, they were the closest thing to family I had."

Blair's forehead furrowed. She'd eaten a lot of lonely breakfasts, too, with her father rushing off to the office in the mornings, and Eleanor on the phone with Milan by 7AM.

"I want noise," he declared, looking down to interweave his fingers with hers. "I want children playing, laughing, running around. I want chaos at the breakfast table.

"I want the family I didn't have, growing up," he finished, looking at her lovingly. "And I want it with you."

She leaned towards him, cupped his face with her hand, and kissed him.

"But what if we screw them up like our parents did us?" she asked him, half-worriedly, her hand still caressing his face.

"Oh, we'll screw them up for sure," he immediately answered. "But we'll do it in our own unique, special way."

Blair smiled through a wash of happy tears, and they kissed again, lightly, their lips just touching.

"They'll know they're loved," Chuck said. "That's the important thing."

She looked at him for one long beat.

"I love you more than I ever have, Chuck Bass," she finally said.

He smiled. "Same, Waldorf," he said into her lips, as she crossed her wrists behind his head and leaned into yet another kiss.

Behind them, behind the floor-length windows, in the black night over Manhattan, snow blew in circling eddies. All across the city, couples were drawing close together, looking into each others' eyes, saying words of love. In Times Square, throngs of people were shouting in unison, counting down. Ten, nine, eight, seven.

A new year was about to dawn.

**THE END**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Yep. I finally finished it. **

**I was planning on putting in some reflections about writing, here - how I learned that writing a novel (which is what this is, since it clocks in at over 100,000 words) is actually...really hard. There are peaks of excitement, when you finally get to write a scene that you can't wait to take on, and valleys of disappointment, when you honestly have no clue how you're going to power through your next scene. In a way, writing fanfiction is easier, because you already know the characters, but in another, it's harder, because you have the added of burden navigating the fandom's feelings about them, which are often intense. And they can be pretty vocal about it when they don't like what you're doing...**

**It's a much more complicated process than I ever imagined it would be. It's also much more rewarding. And really, really fun.**

**Innumerable thanks, as always, to my beta and companion-in-bitchery, Maribells - who talks me through scenes, adds that extra special _something_ that makes my writing really pop, and makes me laugh without fail while she's doing it. She is also a friend who will console me after a bad day at work as I'm ugly-crying in front of my laptop. I could never have done it without you, M, and you know it. **

**Other big thanks are due to maryl, for continually bugging me to update in her exuberant, lovely way. **

**Thanks also to my reviewers, especially Noirreigne, dreamgurl, Arazadia, and recently, Bassward, for their long, enthusiastic reviews. There have been others who are supportive of my writing on tumblr (not necessarily Criminal), and I appreciate you as well, jonstewartforpresident, breakfastatharrywinston (the Very Last Valkyrie, here), and scintillatingstarlight.**

**If I am forgetting anyone, which I doubtless am, please know that I'm already embarrassed about it. I've been really grateful for all the encouragement I've received.**

**I won't be writing any more Gossip Girl fanfiction in the future. For me, it's time to move on to other things. I'm going to spend the first days of the New Year contemplating my writerly future, though, so if any of you have any advice, it's appreciated as well.**

**Thanks again for reading, y'all.**

**xoxo**  
><strong>TB<strong>


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